


Fluff and Stuff

by werewolvesandarrows (nerdy_farm_girl)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 52 Week Writing Challenge, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - High School, Bartender Derek, Beauty and the Beast Elements, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, M/M, Mentions of canon typical violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/werewolvesandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 52 Week Writing Challenge, or the one where I write one short story every week.<br/><b>Chapter 1</b>: Derek/Stiles<br/><b>Chapter 2</b>: Malia/Kira<br/><b>Chapter 3</b>: Derek/Lydia<br/><b>Chapter 4</b>: Derek/Scott<br/><b>Chapter 5</b>: Derek/Scott<br/><b>Chapter 6</b>: Derek/Lydia<br/><b>Chapter 7</b>: Derek/Stiles<br/><b>Chapter 8</b>: Derek/Stiles<br/><b>Chapter 9</b>: Allison/Lydia<br/><b>Chapter 10</b>: Lydia/Scott<br/><b>Chapter 11</b>: Derek/Kira<br/><b>Chapter 12</b>: Allison/Kira<br/><b>Chapter 13</b>: Derek/Stiles<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All! As you may know, I am participating in the 52 in 52 writing challenge. I will be adding each week as a chapter to this work here on AO3, as well as posting it on my [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/). These fics will be for all different ships and will _not_ all take place in the same universe, but I will be sure to note the ship in each chapter summary, and will add to tags/warnings/up the rating if needed as we go.  
>  If you would like to participate in the challenge, you can check out the[collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/52in52challenge) here on AO3 and add your work too it, or you can join in on tumblr!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Stiles  
> Tags: getting together, future fic, humor  
> Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall  
> Rating: Teen & Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Neon's](http://ganseysleeps.tumblr.com/) birthday, and inspired by this [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/135803338005/puplets-one-time-my-boyfriend-and-i-were) post:  
>  _one time my boyfriend and I were cuddling and he was like “I know how to read palms” and I got really excited and he looked really intensely at my hand and then gasped and looked up at me and just went “it says that you’re a nerd”_

“Hey guess what?”

Stiles lifts his head from the case file he’s buried in, glancing towards Derek who’s curled up at the other end of the couch. He’s not sure what makes his stomach flip, whether it’s actually being home in Beacon Hills, actually having a job, actually sharing a house with Scott like they always planned, or actually being friends with Derek now that they’ve all kind of conquered their demons. Probably the Derek thing. Or the _other_ Derek thing, the one where five years hasn’t done anything except make him _hotter_. Which is the actual worst. For real. Stiles has a _job_ and _rent_ and other grownup things to deal with, he does not need to spend what little free time he has daydreaming about opalescent eyes that crinkle in the corners and a smile that could actually start a war. Or end one. Either is just as likely at this point.

“What?” He squints at Derek, unsure of where this is going. Derek used to be fairly predictable, with all the growling and the anger and mistrust. He could count on him to be an asshole and wanting to do exactly the opposite of whatever Scott was thinking. But _now_ , now Scott and Derek mesh annoyingly well, and they smile at each other and have weird wolfy bonding sessions out in the preserve with Liam and Malia that Stiles wants absolutely _no_ part of. He’s perfectly fine staying back and watching all the movies no one else ever wants to watch with Kira (or the pair of them getting steamrolled by Lydia and her rom coms but whatever. Stiles digs Matthew McConaughey so it’s chill).

“I learned how to read palms when I was in New York.” Derek says calmly, not looking up from the book in his own hands. Stiles narrows his eyes. He’s almost _too_ calm. But Scott, who has reappeared from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and three cans of soda, seems to be excited. Which means Derek _probably_ isn’t lying.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles sets his case file down on the coffee table, deciding to take the bait. He shifts closer to Derek, forcing himself to calm down when Scott takes his seat, leaving him in the middle of the couch with so escape. “What do mine say?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Derek asks, deadly serious as he takes Stiles’ hands. Stiles rolls his eyes, trying to distract himself from the soft drag of the pads of Derek’s fingers across the backs of his hands, his knuckles, Derek’s thick thumb sweeping across his palm. He swallows hard, forcing himself to think of something, _anything_ , other than Derek’s fingers.

“Did they teach you to be dramatic too?” Stiles grins at him. “Never mind, that’s always been part of the Derek Hale package.”

Derek scowls at him, which is much more normal and vaguely comforting. Stiles knows how to handle Derek Hale scowling at him. He _lives_ for this kind of thing, poking and prodding until he gets a reaction. According to Scott they’re too old for pigtail pulling (that is _not_ what this is, by the way), but since when has he ever listened to Scott anyways?

Speaking of Scott, Stiles can feel him _breathing_ down the back of his neck.

“I require neck kisses if I’m going to have to feel your hot breath on me,” he smirks, turning to look over his shoulder and finding himself face to face with Scott. He yelps and lunges forward, which only send him crashing into Derek’s chest. Which is the actual _worst_ place to be when squished between two werewolves who can smell boners on a not _nearly_ big enough couch. This time he squawks and falls back towards Scott, who of course, catches him and straightens him up, brushing off his shoulders.

“Shouldn’t throw stones when you live in a glass house dude,” Scott says easily, settling back into the couch and turning his attention to the episode of New Girl playing softly on the TV.

“What are you trying to say?” Stiles scoffs as he hold his hands back out to Derek, glaring at Scott over his shoulder. All he gets is a shrug. Which is rude as fuck.

“He’s trying to say that _you’re_ dramatic,” Derek grumbles, staring intently at Stiles’ palms. Derek’s intense looks always make him squirm, whether they’re directed right at him or not. It’s just… there’s this _depth_ to Derek’s eyes that makes him feel things that make him uncomfortable. Things that he only feels for a very short list of people. Like his Dad, and Scott and… That’s it. That’s the end of his list. Like, he loves the pack, he does, but that’s a different kind of _feeling_ than what he has for his Dad and Scott, the two most important people in his life. But somehow Derek is inching his way in there, has been inching his way in there for who knows how long. _Years_ , probably.

“Wow, could you tell that from my hands? Color me impressed.” He grins through the sarcasm, enjoying the way Derek’s eyebrows seem to lower by degrees, with every word he utters.

“Shut up.”

Sometimes Stiles wishes that Derek’s growly voice still did _anything_ other than turn him on, but it really, really doesn’t. Instead, it makes him want to jump him, to straddle those thighs and kiss his mouth, fangs and all.

“Scotty, tell me something gross. Birth any puppies lately?” Stiles practically pleads, slamming his eyes shut and praying to the anyone that will listen that the images of Derek’s stubbled cheeks rubbing against his neck will just like, _disappear._

“Nah,” Scott sounds disinterested. He’s really pretty rude today. “But I _did_ see Coach Finstock in the showers at the gym today. That was traumatizing.”

Stiles chokes on his own spit as he doubles over laughing, ignoring Derek’s irritated huff in favor of celebrating the fact that sexy make out sessions have now been firmly replaced by the amazing image of Scott and Finstock in the showers in his brain. Oh man. This is the _best_ day ever.

“Oh!” Derek gasps, his fingers tightening around Stiles hands. Stiles straightens immediately, eyes going wide as he takes in Derek’s alarmed expression.

“Oh no,” he swallows, nerves jangling. “What is it? Is my life line short? Is my love line nonexistent?”

“It says,” Derek lets out a breath, looking up at him with solemn eyes. “That you’re a nerd.”

The room falls eerily silent, the only sound is Schmidt yelling something vaguely douchey on the TV. Stiles’ chest starts to hurt and he realizes he was holding his breath, letting it out in a low gasp.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Scott whispers from behind him, holding out a fist over Stiles shoulder. Derek bumps it, that slow smile creeping over his face as Scott starts to laugh, that deep belly one where he throws his head back. Stiles isn’t looking at him though, his eyes narrowed as he glares (pretends to glare, really) at Derek.

Who looks beautiful like this, with his eyes lighting up and his nose crinkling just slightly and his smile wide and beautiful and making Stiles’ heart squeeze tight in his chest. His smile only gets brighter the longer Scott laughs, but his hands are still holding Stiles’, still there, warm and steady and big.

So Stiles kisses him.

It doesn’t work, not really.

Their teeth clack together because Derek is smiling, and then Scott yelps which makes Stiles smile, so their chins scrape and teeth clack some more and noses bump. But then Derek tilts his head and pulls Stiles in with handfuls of his flannel. And this time, this time it’s perfect, all soft lips and slick tongues and the warm heat of Derek’s _actual mouth_. Stiles is going to _die_ , because Derek Fucking Hale is kissing him back like he means it, like he _wants_ it.

He’s considering the merits of just climbing right into his lap when a throat clears behind him.

Right.

Scotty.

“I’d like to propose a toast.”

Stiles is fully prepared to just ignore his best friend, but there’s something cold and wet pressed against the side of his neck. So he pulls away from Derek with a squawk, glaring at Scott as he falls back onto the couch. Scott doesn’t seem to care, still grinning as he passes them each a can of Coke. Derek takes his can with one of his special Scott Smiles, popping the tab before glancing at Stiles. And this glance, this _look_ on his face, all blushing and shy, it’s the most perfect thing Stiles has ever seen in his entire life. He’s done for, is what he is.

Stiles takes his own can and pops the top, raising an eyebrow at Scott.

“To new beginnings!”

“To new beginnings,” Stiles repeats, tapping his can against Scott and Derek’s.

His eyes catch Derek’s as they both drink, and he watches, fascinated, as a flush spreads delicately across Derek’s nose and cheeks.

This is the beginning of something good.


	2. To Prom, or Not To Prom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Kira/Malia  
> Tags: getting together, canon divergent (allison is still alive), prom asking, background scott/lydia, background allison/stiles, past scott/kira, past stiles/malia  
> Characters: Kira Yukimura, Malia Tate, Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski  
> Rating: Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Brittany's](http://maliayukiimura.tumblr.com/) birthday!  
> Also posted on [ tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/137223801182/to-prom-or-not-to-prom).

“Ugh.” Lydia drops dramatically into the chair beside Kira in a cloud of expensive perfume and irritation. Her usually serene features are scrunched into a scowl, and she’s radiating the kind of vibes that normal people would probably take as a warning.

Kira isn’t a normal person.

“What’s the matter?” She doesn’t look up from her history homework, only half focusing on Lydia as she tries to think of something else she can write about the economic impact of the Civil War. The _worst_ thing about having her dad as a teacher is that he’s not afraid to try and talk to her about her work at _any_ and all times. It does result in her trying harder in his class, which means she’s probably doing exactly what he wants her to do. Her dad can be so annoying.

“Stiles won’t stop asking Scott if it’s okay for him to ask Allison to prom.” Lydia slams her calculus book open with more force than necessary, sending Kira’s notes fluttering in the breeze it creates. “Scott’s said it’s _fine_ like 10 times, but Stiles won’t let it go. It’s just prom for god’s sake.”

Kira swallows hard, her eyes drawn unbidden to the table on the opposite side of the library. She knows Malia’s sitting there, even though she’s hidden behind the stacks of textbooks and binders and notes littered across the table. Judging by the sprawl of her bare legs beneath it, there’s a large possibility she might have fallen asleep. Kira wants to go check on her, wants to wake her up and bring her a snack and help her work on her homework, but Malia had _insisted_ she could do it by herself. And it’s not like Kira’s _upset_ or anything, it’s just that they’re best friends, they should be allowed to help each other. But Malia’s been acting kind of weird ever since Valentine ’s Day, when they’d gone out with Scott and Lydia and Stiles and Allison. It was supposed to be low pressure, Scott and Lydia are the only _actual_ couple anyways, even though Stiles and Allison have been dancing around each other for a while now. Malia was uncharacteristically quiet the whole night, and it left Kira confused. Maybe Malia finally noticed that Kira has hearts in her eyes every time she looks at her. It wouldn’t be surprising, with the were-coyote senses and all. She _should_ have noticed something.

_It’s just prom._

“Is prom like, a big deal here?” Kira asks Lydia tentatively, partly to distract her from her annoyance with Stiles and partly because she’s curious. And just a little bit because there’s someone _she_ wants to ask to prom but is kind of scared to ask. Maybe.

“No.” Lydia huffs like she’s offended, flicking through her email on her phone. “No one cares about it _nearly_ enough. If I hadn’t been running away from actual death this year maybe I would have been the one to plan it.” She jabs at what must be a particularly offensive email, her hot pink nail clicking against the screen. “ _Then_ it would have been a big deal.”

Kira frowns down at her notes, eyes darting towards Malia as she chews on her pen. It’s not that… She’s just… She doesn’t know how to _do_ this, really. Being with Scott happened more naturally than anything else, and they both kind of bumbled their way through it. And back in New York she hadn’t had trouble getting dates, but for some reason, this town and these people have that _connection_ with her that just makes everything seem to mean _more_. It’s like every action carries way more significance than it should, especially since there’s a chance they could all be under attack within the next hour. Not to mention, that even though Malia can be very perceptive, she seems to be oddly naive concerning Kira’s _feelings_. So there is absolutely zero doubt in her mind that the whole encounter would be awkward. That is, if she actually ever asks her.

“You and Scott are going though, right?”

“Yes,” Lydia lets out a dramatic sigh, scooping her hair over her shoulder in a way that only she seems to be able to pull off. “I contemplated not going, but I haven’t had a chance to dress up in a _very_ long time. Plus, Scott looks good in a tux.” She smiles softly at Kira, caution in her eyes like maybe she said too much. Kira just grins and waggles her eyebrows.

“Yeah he does!” It gets a giggle out of Lydia, the last of the Stiles induced annoyance melting off her features.

“You should ask her,” Lydia whispers in her ear. Kira stiffens, not daring to even flick at the lock of Lydia’s hair tickling her neck. “I’m pretty sure she’d be super excited.”

Malia doesn’t appear to be paying them any attention, although her bare toes are now tapping erratically on the carpet, so she is apparently _not_ sleeping. Which means there is a high possibility she could be listening.

“Right now?” She hates the way her voice goes high with anxiety, and she can feel the fox fire buzzing beneath her skin. She wants her katana, needs to wrap her hands around something to settle herself. Instead she gets Lydia. Which is not all that comforting, to be quite honest.

“Yeah!” Lydia raises her eyebrows, which can only mean one thing. There is a rational truth coming her way that she won’t be able to argue with. “It’s only a month away, you’ll need that much time to pick out your outfits. Plus Allison and I are going shopping tomorrow after school, you two should join us.”

And that… She knows Lydia’s doing this on purpose. She’s being backed into a corner in that way that only Lydia can manage, where she feels almost _happy_ about it. Which she’s not. Happy, that is. She’s nervous, but it’s almost pleasant, or… That’s not right. It’s the excited kind of anxious, where the reward is so much higher than the risk. Because if Malia says yes…

_If_

“I don’t know Lydia,” she cries, burying her head in her arms. “She might say _no_ , and the _breakup_ is still something she’s getting used to and what if she doesn’t even _want_ to-”

“Kira.” Lydia cuts her off with a gentle hand on her arm. “Do it now. Before she gets hungry, and then grumpy.” Lydia glances at her watch. “You have approximately seven minutes.”

“ _Lydiaaaa_ ,” Kira huffs but stands up anyways, half tripping over the legs of her chair all tangled in her back pack straps. She smoothes down her skirt, hands trembling as she gathers her wits. She can _do_ this. It’s _just_ Malia, her best friend in the entire world and you know, just the prettiest girl she’s ever known.

Just that.

“Just go, be a _vixen_.”

“Oh my god, _stop_.”

Kira steps towards Malia’s table, mostly just to get away from Lydia and a little bit because she does _want_ this. She wants to get dressed up and see Malia feeling beautiful and maybe hold hands in the limo and slow dance under streamers and a disco ball. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll get to find out if Malia’s lips are as soft as they look.

“Hey um,” she bumps into the edge of Malia’s table, her pile of books wobbling precariously. Malia looks up through her lashes, nose scrunched and one hand fisted in her hair.

“What?” Her voice sounds hoarse, like maybe she hasn’t used it all day. It sounds _sexy_ , which is just the worst thing ever. Kira _cannot_ deal with this.

“I um, I was wondering,” she swallows hard and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Would you, uh, do you want… We should go to prom together?”

Malia blinks up at her, expression blank in a way that it generally isn’t. It’s terrifying, and Kira’s heart starts to race even _faster_ , galloping in her chest and threatening to break free from its cage. She knows Malia has to be able to hear it, can probably smell her nervousness and even the low hum of desire beneath it. She _has_ to. The silence between them stretches on, three heart beats, four heart beats, five. Kira’s mouth dries out and she licks her lips, preparing herself to carefully retract her invitation.

Except Malia’s staring at her mouth.

And that… _that_ is a new piece of information. Kira licks her lips again, watching as Malia seems to unconsciously mimic the motion. Her big doe eyes flick up to meet Kira’s and she grins, that wide, easy one that never fails to make Kira’s heart sing.

“Well obviously,” Malia huffs, leaning across the table toward Kira on her elbows. “I’ve been wanting to -” She stops short, her features pinching. It’s a new habit she’s developed, picking up the nose scrunch from Lydia and the narrowed eyes from Stiles, something they both do every time she says something… strange. Kira doesn’t really mind Malia’s bluntness. She tends to say what she means, and it’s refreshing. “I really want to.” Malia says instead, her smile returning to her face. Kira can’t help but smile back, leaning harder against the table. “I also think I could use your help… on my homework… please?”

“Of course!” Kira lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’ll just grab my stuff!” She turns and hurries back towards her and Lydia’s table, where Lydia _and_ Scott (when did he even get here?) are doing a horrible job of pretending they aren’t eavesdropping. Kira’s cheeks heat immediately, but she tries valiantly to ignore it. Plus, when she glances back over her shoulder, Malia is still watching her.

There’s something in her eyes that Kira’s never quite picked up on before, and it makes her feel warm and tingly all over. Malia smirks when their eyes meet, and Kira trips over her own feet, flailing wildly forward.

Scott catches her before she hits the floor, of course he does, but he’s biting his lip to hold in a grin and it’s the _worst_.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, brushing herself off and scooping her books and notes into her arms. “And thanks.”  She turns away before Scott can reply, attempting to escape before Lydia has a chance to say anything embarrassing.

“Go get ‘em tiger!” Lydia practically _yells_ , earning herself a pointed glare from the librarian. Kira refuses to look back, instead striding purposefully towards Malia. Who smirks and flashes her mouthful of fangs in Lydia’s direction.  

It absolutely does _not_ do _anything_ whatsoever for Kira. Obviously. She just trips again because the carpet has a lump in it. Or something. Probably.

Malia just smiles when she finally sits down beside her, tangling their legs together beneath the table. “Okay so, I just don’t get why I even need to _care_ about this though?” She grumbles, shoving her neat (but obnoxiously highlighted) notes in Kira’s direction. “Doesn’t your dad already _know_ all this stuff? Why do _I_ need to write a paper telling him about it?”

Kira can’t help but laugh. This is going to be good.


	3. Beauty & The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Lydia  
> Tags: inspired by beauty and the beast, feral derek, alpha derek, canon retell, mention of canon typical violence, background Scott/Allison  
> Characters: Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, Allison Argent, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski  
> Rating: Mature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for my wonderful friend [Amy](http://thebreakingillusion.tumblr.com)
> 
> so this isn't really like Beauty and The Beast but it kind of sort of is... also this is way longer than I meant it but oh well.
> 
> Also posted on my [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/137892451117/beauty-and-the-beast).
> 
> If I need to add any tags please let me know

> " _wolves and girls are made of the same stuff. we are fiercer and stronger than we look, our teeth sharp and white and ready to bite. our nails long and threatening; digging into pink flesh or a pink dress, it’s all the same. our pack mentality, our unwillingness to give up, our deathly beauty, a fine line between queen and killer._
> 
> _whether i run with diamonds around my neck or blood in my mouth, i’m nature’s creature, a predator with a grin."  ([x](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/135586728554/vodlemort-wolves-and-girls-are-made-of-the-same))_

* * *

 

They say the forest on the north side of Beacon Hills is haunted, rumors of glowing red eyes and wolf men and unearthly howls on the full moon. They say there’s a beast that lives there, out in the burned out husk of a mansion. They say that a family used to live there, a family bursting with life and love and laughter. Some say that it’s the family’s ghosts that haunt the mansion, but others swear they’ve seen something, a bear, a wolf, a _monster_.

Lydia thinks it’s all a load of crap.

Her backyard abuts the forest, the trees casting dark shadows across her old swing set. As a child she spent a lot of timing playing in the leaves, pretending she was a woodland fairy. She’s never seen glowing eyes or unidentifiable beasts, though sometimes she thinks she hears howling. It’s probably a trick of her brain though, and it only seems to happen on the edges of sleep, with bright moonlight shining through her window and the local horror stories echoing in her ears.

She knows running in the woods by herself is dangerous anyways. Not because of the _beasts_ of course, but because there’s no cell phone signal and no one close enough to hear her scream. But she does it anyways, thriving off the adrenaline bursting through her at breaking the rules. She’s not quite sure how she ends up in front of the house, the siding peeling and roof caved in and wood around the broken windows blackened. It’s what happens to her sometimes, just ending up places without knowing how she got there. The sleepwalking and the nightmares started on her 12th birthday, the night before this very house burned to the ground. She can still remember the dream she had, children crying and people screaming in agony, flames flickering through windows. She’d woken up right here, alone in the woods in her pajamas. A woman had come out of the house and saw her there, had taken her hand and guided her back home.

The next day the woman and her family were dead.

Lydia tried not to think about it, tried to hide the fact that her mother had to lock her in her bedroom at night. It got less intense, the closer she got to graduation, but she still wakes up screaming every once in a while, and her freshman year roommate once found her wandering around Berkeley in her pajamas.

But standing here in front of this eerie house, she swears she can hear voices, singing and sighing, urging her to go inside. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees something flicker, and she spins about, pulling the headphones out of her ears. The woods is silent, almost _too_ silent, no birds chirping or insects rejoicing in the summer heat. She glances back towards the house, frowning at the front door hanging on one hinge and the dark, wet stain on the front porch. Her pulse pounds in her ears, drowning out everything except the faint but familiar voice beckoning for her to come inside.

Going inside would be a terrible idea. The house is most likely unsafe, the supports weakened by flames and time. She takes a hesitant step forward anyways, drawn like a moth to a flame. That familiar voice gets louder, insistent, so she takes another step, and then another, wrapping the cord to her headphones around and around her fingers. As she’s about to take her fourth step, a twigs snaps off to her right. Her heart jumps in her throat as she flinches toward the sound, only to be slammed backwards, rough bark scraping against her back through her thin t-shirt.

She can’t breathe, her heart caught in her throat and her pulse pounding too fast, unable to focus on anything. Red eyes. Red eyes and coarse hair and claws pricking her bare arms. Rank, hot breath blowing across her face and teeth, so many teeth, sharp and glistening. Her feet aren’t even touching the ground, pinned up against the tree the way she is. Her phone and ear buds lay uselessly on the ground, stark white and out of place on the rotting leaves. She swallows hard and closes her eyes, counting slowly to ten and hoping maybe this is just another one of her nightmares. 

But the prick of claws against her skin doesn’t fade, and she doesn’t feel the warm comfort of her childhood bed beneath her. Steeling herself, she forces her eyes open, and _looks_.

The unnatural red eyes have been replaced with greenish ones, distinctly human but with a wild, animalistic edge to them. This… creature seems to be lacking normal eyebrows, though the brow bone is bumpy and more defined. Its cheeks are covered with coarse hair, flowing from the dark matted hair on its head all the way down its jaw. There’s too many teeth in its mouth, so many that its lips are forced to remain parted. The rest of its body resembles a human man, corded arms and muscles rippling across its shoulders and chest. It’s wearing tattered jeans but no shirt, skin grubby with dirt and what looks suspiciously like blood. The claws on its feet match the claws on its hands, long and yellowed and sharp.

Lydia can’t bring herself to fight back. She can see the power rippling beneath the surface, the claws and fangs that could tear her to shreds in an instant. Instead she stares into its eyes, at the fear and vulnerability hiding behind the animalistic anger. It’s almost like there’s a _person_ in there, hiding beneath the dirt and the teeth and the blood.

She tilts her chin up in defiance, if only to make it so she’s looking down on the creature.

“Put. Me. Down.”

The creature growls low in its chest, the sound rumbling down Lydia’s spine like the bass in a club. She fears for a moment that she’s chosen the wrong path that this _thing_ is going to tear her apart. But then it blinks, painfully slow, that strange red glow fading in and out of its eyes.

And just like that, it's gone.

Lydia slides down the tree, sinking down onto the leaves with her knees pulled up to her chest. She needs to get out of there, needs to run, needs to lock all the doors behind her. But she can’t bring herself to _move_. After a few shaky breaths she pushes herself to her feet, gathering up her phone and clutching it for dear life. She glances back at the house, the front door suspiciously closed.

She runs all the way home.

* * *

Lydia _should_ leave it alone. She _should_ probably tell the police, or animal control or her _mom_. Someone. She definitely shouldn’t be researching what she saw, and she most certainly shouldn’t be purposefully marching back out there in flip flops and yoga pants with a bag of clothes in one hand and groceries in the other.

But she’s bored and home on summer break and relatively friendless. Allison is visiting her relatives in France, and Jackson hasn’t returned from London since he left without saying goodbye after graduation. She doesn’t really have other real friends, though maybe she could consider McCall and Stilinski, if she is going to play six degree of Allison Argent. But two years of college have only made her more independent, so she’s not about to call up some _boys_ for help. She can handle this.

The intrigue of the whole thing is what’s pulling her in. She’s always been a curious person, and the scientist side of her wants to be able to identify just what this creature is, or _man_ as she’s starting to think. (The scientist part of her is also shuddering at the unreliable sources she stayed up into the wee hours of the morning researching). But if lycanthropy, yes _lycanthropy_ , is really a thing, she wants to be the first person to document it. Which is why there’s a notebook tucked in between some of her dad’s old t-shirts.

This is a chance for _discovery_.

There's no voices this time, no inexplicable pull guiding her. It's just Lydia, her flip flops and her curiosity, making what is probably too much noise as she stomps through the woods. She should probably be more afraid of this creature, but she isn't, not at all. She doesn't think he will hurt her, even if her research says otherwise. There was something in his eyes the other day, a chained awareness that makes her think there's still a man inside of the beast.

The front door of the house is hanging open again, the surrounding woods just as silent if not more so than last time. Lydia stumbles once, her body trying to fight her, trying to stop her from continuing. She marches on, the slap of her flip flops against her feet echoing between the trees.

She makes it all the way to the sagging front porch without being attacked, but she pauses anyway, unsure. When she'd planned this out in her head, she'd expected to be chased away or thrown up against another tree. Maybe he isn't here, maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. She squints at the dark stains she'd noticed previously on the porch. Up this close it looks an awful lot like dried blood. Hopefully it belongs to an animal or something, and she’s not willingly walking into a murderer's trap.

The first step creaks when she puts her weight on it, the second one ominously does the same. She still hasn't been attacked so she keeps moving, cautiously creeping across the porch towards the front door. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they do, she has to fight the urge to run.

He's watching her, crouched at the top of the staircase inside the front door. His eyes are glowing red again, lighting up the darkness as a low growl seems to reverberate about the husk of a house. Lydia swallows and averts her eyes, recalling something she'd read somewhere about direct eye contact presenting a challenge.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she says, keeping her tone as even as she can. The words still stick in her throat, voice unrecognizable in the silence. He cocks his head but his eyes don't dim, still watching, waiting. “I brought some uh, food?” She holds up the bag and waves it at him. One second he's sitting there, staring creepily at her and the next he's leaping, swiping the bag from her hand and running on all fours into what looks like used to be a kitchen.

Lydia follows him once she gets her heart beating again, stepping cautiously around rotten boards and piles of ash and leaves. He growls softly at her, but doesn’t make any move to stop her from coming closer. His claws shred through the grocery bag with ease, and then the paper sandwich wrapper. The actual eating part is a little gross, honestly, bits of food flying around as he chews and gnashes.

“So you're a werewolf huh?” She asks, leaning against the grimy countertop. The chewing stops for a moment, and when she glances over clear, bluish-grayish-greenish eyes are staring back. “Can you understand me?” The werewolf blinks a few times then turns his attention back to the sandwich, finishing the first one and starting right in on the second. “I'll take that as a no.” She sighs and drops the second bag on the counter, turning to rifle through it, searching through the clothes she brought for her notebook.

Her fingers have just closed around the edge when warm breath gusts against the back of neck. She freezes, heart pounding too loud in her ears as a long arm reaches around her, claws slicing through the second bag with terrifying ease. Her dad’s clothes flop out onto the counter along with her notebook. It seems to satisfy him, because he huffs and moves away as silently as he arrived. 

When she turns around he's sitting cross legged on the floor, pulling the sandwich apart slowly, almost savoring it. Slowly, she opens her notebook, and begins to write. She starts with the facts, around six feet tall, dark hair, green eyes that turn red sometimes. Then come the fangs, the claws, the weird facial hair and the missing eyebrows. The page fills up rapidly with her notes, and she flips to a clean one, this time sketching him, sitting on the floor, licking the remnants of the sandwiches he destroyed off his fingers.

He sits and watches her for a moment, head tilted and eyes focused on her pencil moving across the paper. He seems mesmerized by the movement or maybe the sound, eyes blinking slower and slower. Not for the first time Lydia wonders _why_ he’s stuck like this. Most of the research she found suggested that werewolves only changed from human to wolf on the full moon. Some sources said they could change at will, so why is he still like this? Theoretically, he _should_ be able to understand her as well. There’s something going on here that isn’t right.

The werewolf growls low in his throat, eyes burning that eerie red again. He shoots out the front door, fast enough he almost blurs around the edges, leaving Lydia alone in the house. She frowns at the empty spot he left behind, shredded paper and plastic and bits of lettuce littering the floor. Apparently observation hour is over for the day.

She returns the next day, this time armed with some library books, scans of old newspapers from the archives, and a camp chair to sit in. The werewolf is crouched out on the front porch, watching her approach with red eyes. His nostrils flare wildly and his nose lifts, like he’s scenting the air.

“I have perfume on today,” Lydia explains, tossing the bag of lunch meat and chips in his direction. It was cheaper to just by the meat instead of pre-made sandwiches, and she didn’t think he’d really care. By the time she gets her camp chair set up on the leaves and her research spread out across the porch as if it's a table, he’s already halfway through the first pound of sliced turkey. “Gross.”

He gives her what might constitute as an amused look, his eyes (thankfully returned to their greenish hue) crinkling in the corners. It’s so _human_ , and she knows then that she _needs_ to figure out what’s happening to him.

“My name’s Lydia, by the way,” she offers, flipping her notebook open to a clean page. One of the books she found seems promising, pages yellowing and old fashioned type. The name in the front looks an awful lot like Argent, but the script is so elaborate it’s hard to tell. She’s going to have a laugh about this with Allison later, probably. She can’t imagine her best friend being a descendent of a family of what appears to be monster hunters. Although… Allison _is_ an Olympic archer, and she seems to know her way around a knife too. Lydia found Chinese ring daggers under her bed that one time too. So maybe…

She shakes the thought out of her head, carefully flipping to the section labeled lycanthropy. The information seems to be accurate, with the teeth and the claws and the hair. According to this information, the red eyes mean the werewolf in front of her is an alpha, though an alpha is supposed to have a pack. This one certainly doesn’t, unless he’s _hiding_ from them or something.

 

**_ Feral _ **

_When a werewolf cannot shift back to human form, they have gone feral. Much like a rabid dog, a feral werewolf is dangerous and should be put down immediately. It has lost any part of its human nature, and has given itself over to the beast. The longer a werewolf remains in beta or alpha form, the less likely it will be able to return to human form. Do not engage. A feral wolf is extremely dangerous, show no mercy._

 

“Hmmmm,” Lydia glances at _her_ werewolf, eyes squinted as he picks a piece of meat out from between his teeth. “You don’t look very scary to me.” He lets out a low growl, eyes flaring red to match. “ _Can_ you understand me? Why can’t you _talk_?” He just stares at her for a minute before returning to his food, munching almost happily on the Doritos she brought, not seeming to care about the crumbs covering his bare chest. Lydia sighs and shakes her head, continuing to read through the section on feral werewolves. There’s plenty of information about identifying the signs, almost like the author was _eager_ to find a reason to “put down” a werewolf. There’s nothing about the cause though, which is frustrating. She’s sure that the _reason_ he’s stuck like this is the most important piece of the puzzle. Of course, this would be a whole lot easier if wolf man over here could _talk_.

Giving up on the book, she trades it for the old newspapers she made copies of. There had been a lot of coverage of the Hale Fire when it had happened, eight years ago. She doesn’t remember it too well, too young to fully understand the implications and too overwhelmed with the arrival of her own nightmares. But it’s all there, splashed across the front page of the Beacon Hills Tribune.

They articles start out heavy on sadness, eight lives lost, Talia Hale, three of her children Cora (12), Nathan (10) and Timothy (10), her mother Nora Hale, her sister in law, Kelly Hale, Kelly’s six year old daughter, Malia. Talia’s eldest children, Laura (18) and Derek (16) were out of the house at the time of the fire, attending a school play with their friends. Talia’s brother Peter had been severely burned while trying to rescue his family, and was placed in a medically induced coma. The article goes on, describing Talia’s contributions to the community and the tragedy of losing so many young lives in such a horrible accident. As time goes on, confusion rises. The Fire Marshall declares it an arson, gasoline trailed around the house and splashed through the windows. A strange black powder lines the doorways, and upon further testing is discovered to be derived from the harmless rowan tree.

Lydia frowns and reaches for one of her books, flipping hurriedly to the section detailing werewolves’ weaknesses. Mountain Ash (also referred to as rowan trees), tops the list, stating that werewolves are unable to cross it.

_HALES = WEREWOLVES_

Lydia scrawls the words in her notebook, pen shaking in her hand. The Hale’s were _murdered_ , children were _murdered_ , possibly _because_ they were something other than human. She continues to read through the newspaper articles, frustration building inside of her as the time stamps grow farther and farther apart, and the information becomes more and more sparse. The articles stop all together until last year, and then they start up again. Peter Hale disappears from the long term care facility he was at. Laura Hale, now 26, is found dead in the very woods she’s currently sitting in. Derek Hale is reported missing by someone he works with out in New York City, and the Tribune picks it up, his mug plastered on the front page.

The captain under the picture says that it’s a few years old, taken on Derek’s graduation day. Lydia scoffs, glaring at the page. She’s smart enough to do the math, and Derek would have graduated high school six years ago. There’s no way 24 year old Derek Hale looks the same now as the baby faced kid in the picture. He looks like his mother, she realizes, heart squeezing when she remembers the soft, warm hand and gentle voice guiding her home that night, eight years ago. The same dark hair, the same soulful eyes, though Derek’s seem to be bluish while she remembers Talia’s as being a warm brown.

Her fingers still on the page, the pieces suddenly clicking together in her head. Swallowing hard, she glances up at the werewolf, only to finding him sitting much closer than she expected, his face only inches from hers. With trembling fingers she hold up the page with Derek Hale’s picture on it, eyes flicking between the stone faced teen and the frankly hot mess of a werewolf sitting in front of her. The hair looks like it could be a match, though her werewolf’s is matted with dirt and possibly blood. It’s the eyes that grab her, that unique mix of blue and green and gold and gray, a swirling color she’d never seen before. Which means…

“Derek.”

He flinches back from her, eyes wide but still green and guarded.

“Derek Hale, that’s you.”

He just continues to stare, but his reaction to the name alone is enough to convince her of her findings. Which now that she thinks about it, is pretty gruesome. “It’s no wonder you’re stuck like this Hale,” she grumbles, reaching for one of the other books she found at the library. “Living in the house where your entire family lost their lives is probably not healthy for _anyone_.” This book doesn’t yield any more answers, and the facts it does have don’t seem to match up with anything she’s actually observed.

“Maybe I just need to get you in touch with your human side,” she muses, pushing her fingers through her hair with a sigh. She glances up to see if Derek has reacted, but she finds the porch empty save for the remnants of his lunch. “I hate when you do that!” Huffing, she starts to pack up her things, surprised to find that almost two hours have gone by since she headed out here.

Figuring out who Derek is wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she hoped it would be. Usually solving a problem settles her, puts her in a good mood. But maybe the problem is that this isn’t necessarily solved. She’s going to have to figure out how to get him to change back.   

It's almost too easy to fall asleep that night, her brain exhausted from trying to figure things out. She slips into a dream, suddenly twelve years old again, bare feet slipping across damp leaves. Her nightgown flutters around her calves and her teddy hangs from her arm, worn and tattered from years of cuddles. There's no reason for her trek, but she follows her instincts, follows the whispers curling between the dark trees. She can just hear them now, soft murmurs calling to her. Moonlight filters down through the leaves, lighting her path. There's a flickering orange light ahead and she's drawn to it, stepping closer and closer. She stops when she can feel the heat, eyes wide without _seeing_.

The Hale house is burning in front of her, flames surging out of the grated basement Windows and smoke curling out from beneath the front door. Screams echo in the night air, full of agony and heartbreak. The voices get louder, urging her to do something, anything, _everything._

So she does the only thing she can think to do. She screams.

It feels like she’s swimming in the blackest of waters, drifting, trying to find her way to air. A deep roar ripples around her and she blinks her eyes, vision blurring before focusing in on the burning red lights in front of her. It takes a moment to orient herself, to recognize the glowing eyes and the fangs and the leaves beneath her knees. Thick fingers wrap carefully around her forearms as the red eyes fade to a shimmery gray lit by the almost full moon above.

“Derek.” Lydia says his name just to say _something_ , take deep breaths of the warm summer air. She can see the house behind Derek, almost glowing in the moonlight. She realizes with a start this is the exact same spot that Derek’s mother had found her, the exact same spot where she had first screamed, the exact spot where she had last seen the Hale House intact and full of life.

She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring Derek’s steady gaze. He releases her right arm when she tugs on it, swiping hastily at the leaves and dirt sticking to her knees. Her legs are trembling, her hands too, mind and body shaken by the dream (or vision, maybe?) that she just experience.

Derek tugs gently on the arm still in his grasp, claws held carefully away from her skin. He jerks his head towards the path that leads back to her house, tugging on her arm again. Lydia frowns but takes a hesitant step forward. Derek moves with her, guiding her almost, his nose lifted as he scents the air. He leads her all the way back to her house, stopping where the trees meet the green grass of her lawn. Lydia’s painfully reminded of making the same trek with his mother, only with less claws and a lot more kind words. Interestingly she feels just as comforted, walking through the woods with a man who’s been taken over by a beast.

“Thank you,” she whispers, looking up into his face. He nods, and once again she finds herself wondering if he _can_ understand speech to a certain extent. And then he’s gone, releasing her arm and disappearing back into the trees without a sound.

Lydia forces back the lump in her throat, feet slipping across dew damp grass as she makes her way to the back door. She swears she can feel Derek’s eyes on her, watching her let herself into the house. It should probably, no definitely, freak her out a bit, but it doesn’t, not really. Of course she _knows_ that he could kill her in seconds, that he could scale the side of her house and break into her window, that each time she steps foot into those woods she’s risking her life. But she remembers Derek Hale, remembers hearing his laugh echo through the trees during the spring and riding the bus together in elementary school. She remembers the way he used to hold his little sister’s hand, the way he’d thank the bus driver every afternoon. It’s hard to reconcile that cute little boy with the feral werewolf currently living out in the preserve, but she can’t imagine he would hurt her, especially after tonight.

She falls into a fitful sleep, twisting and turning and waking every half hour. When morning finally comes, she’s exhausted. There’s a part of her that _wants_ to go back out to the Hale House, wants to see Derek and try and figure out how to get him back. But she’s beginning to think that she’s in over her head. She’s got five missed text messages, a voicemail from her dad, and she hasn’t spoken to her mom in days. It’s like this whole thing has become an _obsession_ , and it’s obvious that she needs to take a break.

So she leaves her books and research at home and heads to the town pool. In theory, the screaming children and incessant splashing and the smell of sunscreen should distract her. But it doesn’t not really. She _needs_ to solve this problem, and soon. In two weeks she’ll be moving back to school, and Derek will be on his own. Usually she doesn’t care all that much about other people’s problems, but she can’t leave Derek in Beacon Hills like this and have an easy mind. It’s just not _right_.

So instead of relaxing at the pool, or responding to the texts from her friends, she makes a game plan. If Derek needs to remember his human side, she’s going to have to help him. She’s not sure exactly _how_ to make this work, so she plans to try everything she can think of. Books and memories and music and movies. There has to be something, somewhere that will trigger him.

The next morning she hikes back out there, camp chair in one hand and backpack full of supplies over her shoulder. Sunlight filters down through the leaves, dappling the path ahead of her. She’s beginning to love just being out here, a calmness settling over her that only comes from nature.

Derek seems to be waiting for her, pacing anxiously across the porch. He doesn’t really show his excitement, regarding her with the usual cautious skepticism, his teeth bared. But his eyes don’t turn red and he doesn’t growl, so she takes that as a good sign.

“Alright.” She drops the backpack onto the porch, pulling out the food she brought him. This time she included some vegetables along with the lunch meat, and Derek doesn’t seem to be showing any discretion with what he puts in his mouth. “We’re going to listen to music today.” Derek doesn’t respond, but he does still when Taylor Swift starts playing from the speakers on her phone. It’s not much, but it’s _something_ , and Lydia clings to it.

She keeps up her experiments for days, reading him fairy tales and news articles, listening to music of all kinds, from classical to classic rock to pop. Sometimes she tries to get him to look at photographs, and sometimes she reads the news articles about his family’s deaths. A couple of times she thinks she gets a reaction, his eyes burning red or his nostrils flaring or his eyes crinkling in the corners. But he never speaks.

 

By day five, she’s had enough.

“Listen, if I’m going to spend any more time here, you’re going to have to take a bath.” She had come prepared, bringing shampoo and soap and a bath puff. Armed with her supplies and the clothes she had brought for him over a week ago, she marches off towards the river that runs behind the house. She’s operating on the hope that Derek will follow her, especially since she can’t exactly _make_ him do anything.

He just watches her at first, but she refuses to turn around. After a moment he races past her, the sound of his splashing reaching her ears long before she can see the water.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” she sighs, dropping her bag on a rock and slipping off her shoes. “Take off your pants.” As can be expected, Derek ignores her, his jeans turning steadily darker as they soak up water. He’s staring intently into the depths, eyes flickering back and forth. Shaking her head, Lydia pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, and steels her spine. She can do this. She can take this werewolf’s pants off and help him clean up a bit. It’s _fine_.

“ _Derek_.” He freezes when she says his name, eyes wide. “If you scratch me, I will _murder_ you, understand?” Derek doesn’t say anything, but he stays still, watching as she reaches for the button on his jeans. It’s strange, taking a guy’s pants off without the specific goal of getting to his dick. She pauses with her fingers on his waistband, swallowing hard and praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s wearing boxers and this doesn’t have to be any _more_ awkward. She did not sign up for that level of intimate. No way, that is _not_ part of the contract.

But there’s a small part of her that hopes that maybe being cleaned up with be the thing that brings Derek back.

So she takes a deep breath and goes for it.

Derek doesn’t flinch when she flicks open the button, doesn’t move when she slides down the zipper. Thankfully he’s wearing boxer briefs, Calvin Klein even. He lets her ease his jeans down his legs, carefully lifting his feet so she can pull the off, his claws snagging and tearing just a little.

Lydia folds them carefully and places them next to her bag, before grabbing the soap and puff and wading back out into the water. It’s only knee deep, but the current is strong, which she figures is good, since she won’t have to stand in the filth that comes off of Derek. She reaches for his bare shoulder and pushes, surprised when he sinks easily into the water.

The way he’s blinking up at her is a little unnerving, his eyes crystal clear and remarkably human. The animalistic fear she saw there the first day is gone, and she can’t help but wonder if they’re getting close. Sighing, she wets the puff and pours soap on it, tucking the bottle under one arm as she works up the suds.

Derek tenses when she bends over him, every muscle in his body visibly bunching. Lydia grits her teeth and powers through it, starting to scrub at his shoulders. The tension washes away with the grime, his body loosening as she moves to his chest. She even thinks he _laughs_ when she loses her balance and screeches, landing on her ass with water soaking through her shorts. It’s just a chuffing sound, but his eyes are crinkling and there’s a possibility he’s showing even more teeth than usual.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, righting herself on her knees. His hair is the next thing she needs to tackle, and rather than going back to get the shampoo, she decides to just use the soap. She scoops up a handful of water, frowning when most of it runs through her fingers before she can get it on his head. She tries it again, this time pressing her fingers tighter together. It works a little better, but it’s still ineffective. A cup would have been a good idea, but she’s been trying _not_ to treat Derek like a baby or a _dog_ or something. He’s still a man, and treating him like anything less isn’t likely to help him bring back his humanity.

Without any warning, Derek flops back into the water, dunking his head and letting the brown suds float away from his chest. He sits up and blinks at her, almost like he did it on purpose.

“Well thanks…” Lydia shakes her head, squirting soap into her hands. “I’m beginning to wonder if you have been able to understand me this whole time, and are just pretending you can’t.” She slides her glove covered hands into his hair, nose wrinkling at the caked mud and dirt and snarls she finds. “How are you even living like this?”

Derek chuffs again, tilting his head back as she digs her fingers into his scalp. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Lydia can almost imagine what he’d be like as a human. She sighs and slides her fingers down to his ears, scrubbing through the coarse hair on his cheeks and carefully avoiding his neck. The last thing she needs is to make him feel threatened, and have him turn on her, and she’s sure touching the most vulnerable part of him would be the fastest route to death.

When she sits back on her heels, he dunks himself again, coming up for air looking clean and refreshed. He looks better, she thinks, even though objectively he’s still terrifying. But she’s gotten used to all of the other stuff, and to her he’s just Derek.

“Well Der,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “That went better than I expected.” She wades back to shore, pulling off her gloves and tossing them on top of Derek’s jeans. “When you dry off I’ll-”

“LYDIA!”

She freezes at the sound of her name, ringing through the trees. Derek tenses in the water, his eyes glowing red and a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“LYDIA!”

Lydia shakes her head at him, heart pounding frantically in her chest. It’s not fear for herself, but fear for Derek that’s coursing through her, afraid of what might happen if he’s discovered like this.

“Stay here,” she whispers, fingers starting to shake. “Just stay.” She takes off up the bank before she can give it a second thought, her bare feet sliding across the leaves. Running isn’t usually her thing, but she does it now, anything to put as much space between her and Derek before she’s discovered.

“Lydia!”

She skids to a stop, eyes wide as she takes in the three people standing in front of Derek’s house. She recognizes them, of course she does, three of the only people she considers friends. Except… Allison has a quiver of arrows strapped to her back and a bow in her hands, armed and ready. Stiles has his hands wrapped around a baseball bat, stance tense, while Scott is unarmed, but she doesn’t miss the way he tilts his head back like he’s scenting the air.

“What are you guys doing?” She asks, walking hesitantly forward. “Why are you-” Her jaw clicks shut, suddenly remembering the name scrawled in the front of that book about killing werewolves. “What’s happening?”

“Are you okay?” Allison asks after an awkward silence, finally lowering her bow. Her brows push down into a frown, eyes sweeping up and down Lydia’s frame. Lydia looks down at herself, at her bare feet and soaked jean shorts and tank top. It’s not her usual look, _sure_ , but it’s not like she’s running around naked or something.

“Is he keeping you here?” Stiles bites out before she can respond, his jaw hard as his eyes flit from tree to tree.

“No!” She says it too fast, too soon, and hope of denial going out the window. Scott tilts his head, his eyes glowing yellow (beta, her mind supplies) as his body tense.

“Lydia,” Allison sighs, taking a step closer. “You can’t-”

“I’m here on my own free will,” she cuts her off, lifting her chin. “Derek is my _friend_.”

“ _Derek?_ ” All three of them turn to stare at her with matching confused expressions. “How did you-”

A twig snaps, and everyone falls silent. Allison raises her bow again, her eyes steely with determination. Lydia’s heart is pounding too hard and too fast, and she can’t seem to slow it down. She watches as Scott shifts into beta form, hair and fangs and claws sprouting. His eyes are trained over her shoulder, and Lydia _knows_ this is the end.

“Hey Lydia?” A voice comes from behind her, soft but scratchy, like it hasn’t been used in a while. “You forgot your stuff…”

Surprise is written all across her friends faces, but Lydia refuses to turn around. There’s only one person this could be, only one person who could be walking up behind her and wrapping their arm around her waist. She glances at the hand resting just above her hip. It’s big and warm and definitely clawless and her heart swells in her chest. He did it.

“Thanks Derek.” She leans into him slightly, surprised to feel cotton against her shoulder.

“This is private property,” he growls, “Is there going to be a prob-”

“You’re Derek Hale.” Stiles cuts him off, bat dangling uselessly from one hand. “Oh my _god_. We thought you were dead dude! We thought there was some deranged alpha running around out here!”

“ _Stiles_.” Allison hisses, an arrow still trained carefully on Derek. “ _Shut up_.”

“Oh come on Ally, it’s a whole different story if it’s a _Hale_ out here and you know it!”

“Wait.” Lydia narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “You guys know all about this? I’ve spent _two weeks_ trying to… research this stuff and you knew all along? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

All three duck their heads, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Scott just got turned last year,” Allison explains softly. “And I’m not supposed to… share stuff about my family.”

“You’re an Argent,” Derek growls out, words slurred in a way that suggest his fangs are bared. Lydia doesn’t dare look up at him, focused entirely on Allison.

“I am,” Allison lifts her chin, proud. “I know what my aunt did to you and your family. It is unforgivable. She has been dealt with. I’m the new head of the family, and we follow the code.”

“The _code_? Kate didn’t follow the code, why would I believe you?” Derek sneers, his fingers tightening on Lydia’s hip.

“Scott’s the love of my life,” Allison shrugs, like its simple. “He’s the best person I know, and I’ve learned a few things from him. We protect those who cannot protect themselves. That’s our new code, and I don’t plan on breaking it.”

Silence follows her proclamation. Lydia feels almost heavy with it, her brain working too fast to try and connect the dots. She feel dismayed, betrayed by her friends, left out of the most important parts of their lives. Even more so she’s disappointed in herself for not figuring it all out sooner.

“I need to go.” She says, finally turning to look at Derek. A gasps almost escapes her lips, but she bites it back, schooling her face into a neutral expression. Derek Hale is probably the most attractive person she’s ever seen. He’s beyond handsome, even with an untamed beard and hair flopping across his forehead, the hair might even increase it. Her brain struggles to recognize the werewolf she’s spent so much time with and the man towering over her. It’s the eyes that settle it for her, those same beautiful eyes staring out from beneath impressive eyebrows that _definitely_ weren’t there before. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, his hand slipping from her waist. “For everything.”

Lydia nods once, her smile turning brittle as her throat gets tight. This feels like goodbye, and she thinks it probably is. She’s solved the problem, completed her task. Derek’s returned to human form, he doesn’t need her anymore.

So she turns purposefully away, clenching her jaw to keep her emotions at bay.

“I expect to see all three of you for dinner tonight,” she orders, meeting each of her friends’ eyes, one by one. “And you will explain _everything_ to me. But right now, you need to figure this out.” She takes a few steps, before pausing again. “Oh, and if _any_ of you end up hurt after I’m gone, _all_ of you are going to have to answer to _me_.”

And with that, she leaves.

* * *

Allison, Scott and Stiles explain everything to her that night, how Scott was bitten by Derek’s uncle, how Allison has been trained to be a hunter from the time she was a child. She spends a couple of days with Allison after that, reconnecting and relearning each other. It’s nice, to be able to talk to someone again and actually get something back.

But she misses Derek.

Lydia treks back out to his house the morning before she goes back to school, just to say goodbye. The birds are singing loudly in the trees, and the preserve seems _alive_ like it hasn’t been in weeks. She knows before she even gets there that he’s _gone_ , she can sense it or something. She searches the house just in case, heart aching when she finds no trace of him.

So she goes back to college and tries not to think about him. For the most part she succeeds, junior year isn’t exactly a joke. But sometimes late at night she wonders if he’s okay, wonders if he still lives in Beacon Hills or if he’s moved on. She thinks about what might have triggered him to change back, thinks about the colors in his eyes and the warm weight of his hand on her waist. Feral Derek was her friend, but she’s not so sure about human Derek. She wants him to be, wants to get to know him, wants to hear his laugh and learn the way his face moves.

* * *

 

She’s home for winter break, Christmas only days away when she sees him. The grocery store is crowded, filled with people stocking up on ingredients for holiday celebrations. Lydia slips easily between them, the list her mother had made her clenched in one hand and the handles of a basket in the other. She’s on a mission, and the less time she spends in this god forsaken hellhole the better. Her eyes are scanning the dairy section, searching for the eggnog, when there’s a tap on her shoulder.

“ _What_?” She snaps, spinning around, fully prepared to give whoever this asshole is a piece of her mind. Just give her a _fucking_ minute and she’ll be right out of the way.

“Hi.”

She blinks at the leather jacket covered chest in front of her, chin tilting back as her eyes travel up, over a sharp jaw and thick stubble and full lips. Then there’s the eyes, swirling between blue and green and gray.

“ _Derek_.” His name falls from her lips without permission, giving away too many emotions.

“Lydia,” his lips lift in the corners, almost a smile, and her heart skips. All the feelings she's been trying to squash well up inside her, the curiosity and the caring and other things she's afraid to even put a name for. “How are you?” She realizes too late that she's staring at his mouth, pulling her own bottom lip between her teeth. Embarrassed, she steps back slightly, smoothing her skirt down for something to do with her hands.

“I'm well,” she smiles up at him, inexplicably happy. “How are _you_? You're still in Beacon Hills then?” It sounds like she's fishing and she totally is, and judging by the smirk pulling at Derek’s lips he knows it too.

“Yeah I am,” Derek smiles at the floor, oblivious to the people pushing past them, trying to get to the butter and the eggs. “I um,” he looks up at her through his lashes and her heart trips again, a rare flush rising on her cheeks. “Do you have any plans tonight? I um, have an _actual_ apartment now and uh, we could catch up or whatever.”

“Sure,” she agrees readily, biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling too wide. “I just have to finish up shopping for my mom and then I can come over.”

Lydia feels an awkward silence settle over them but she doesn’t care, can’t bring herself to stop _smiling_ at him. She’s usually coy and almost cold when it comes to people she finds attractive, but whatever this is with Derek feels bigger than that.

“I’ll um… I can text you my address, if you want?” Derek says finally, holding out his phone. Lydia nods and takes it from him, electricity traveling up her arm when their fingers brush. Nerves twist in her stomach and she feels jittery and excited and it’s kind of the _worst_. She usually is so in control, and in this moment, as she hands the phone back to Derek she can feel it slipping away from her. Derek smiles softly, his eyes crinkling in the corners, reminding her of that day in the river. “I’ll see you later then.” He bites his lip and backs up half a step before turning around and walking away.

Lydia only stares at his ass a little bit.

She rushes through the rest of her mom’s shopping list and speeds home, probably forgetting to grab at least a third of it. But all she can focus on is getting to see Derek again. She feels ridiculous, like a thirteen year old with a crush, but this is a Big Deal. Two weeks of her life were spent just _existing_ with Derek, and she put more energy into finding out his story than she put into her last research paper. He’s undeniably important to her.

Derek’s apartment isn’t in the best part of town, and the building itself is a little bit sketchy. But anything is better than living in the ruins of the house his entire family died in, so she’s not about to mention it. The elevator is old fashioned with grates for doors, and it moves slower than anything, but it gets her up there with having to climb the stairs. She hesitates at his door, heart tripping with nerves or excitement or anxiety. Her hand is poised to knock when it slides open anyways, revealing Derek.

“I could hear your heartbeat,” he says, ears turning pink as he motions for her to come in. The apartment is big, with an open floor plan and arching windows that look over the city. His bed is shoved beneath one of them, dark gray sheets and comforter perfectly made. The kitchen is on the smaller side but new, with stainless appliances and a bowl of fruit on the counter.

“I like your place,” Lydia offers, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as she slips off her coat. Derek is there, helping her out of it before she can finish, one big hand sweeping down her spine before he moves away to hang it up. The contact is brief but she feels it all the way down to her toes, nerves practically singing with electricity.

“Well it’s better than my last one,” Derek smirks over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I have beer, wine, um… apple juice, water?”

“Water’s fine,” Lydia replies, deciding _not_ to mention that she isn’t twenty one yet. She follows him into the kitchen, her eyes catching on the photos and notes stuck to the fridge with magnets. She recognizes Allison’s handwriting on a piece of notebook paper, Scott, Stiles and Allison’s own phone numbers written carefully in blue ink. There’s a picture of Scott and Derek asleep on a couch, Derek’s arm around Scott’s shoulders and Scott’s face buried in Derek’s chest. Next to it is a picture of Derek wearing a deputy’s uniform, Sheriff Stilinski pinning a badge to his chest. “So you and Scott…” She trails off, not exactly sure what she wants to ask. The old Derek didn’t seem to understand her, and never got offended about things she would say to him, but now… now anything is possible.

“I needed a pack and he needed an alpha,” Derek shrugs, handing her a glass of water. “We clashed at first, but it worked out.”

Lydia follows him into the living room, sitting hesitantly at the opposite end of the couch. It’s awkward, everything is awkward, and she doesn’t really know how to fix it. In an attempt to make herself more comfortable she toes out of her heels and pulls her legs up beneath her, shifting so she’s more or less facing him.

“Scott’s a good guy though,” Derek continues. “He’s like a brother. Stiles is a pain in the ass but…” He trails off again, taking a long sip of water. Lydia stares at the bob of his throat, the long line of his neck and the exposed V of his chest. Her mouth goes dry, and she wants to _touch_ so badly. He’s impossibly handsome, but she knows she can’t have something casual with him. They have too much history while she simultaneously doesn’t know much of anything about him. Something with Derek would have to be Serious and Big and probably Scary. But she thinks it might be worth it. “I always thought you’d talk more.” Derek says after a moment, his lips curling slightly in the corners.

Lydia hates that her own lips lift in response, hates that she doesn’t seem to be able to control her expressions or emotions around him the way she usually can.

“Well it’s easier to talk to someone when they don’t understand you,” she shrugs, surprised when Derek continues to smile almost softly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, big eyes blinking rapidly. “I uh, I remember everything you know? And you were so… brave, and you never treated me like anything less than human, and I owe _everything_ to you.”

“ _Derek_ ,” Lydia scoots closer, reaching out and covering one of his hands with her own.

“You must have spent a fortune on food.” He’s purposefully trying to lighten the mood, but Lydia’s not sure if she wants that. So she leaves her hand where it is, sweeping her thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

“I was trying to get on your good side,” she smirks at him. “And also convince you not to eat me.” Derek mouth ticks up in the corner like he thought of something funny, but before he can say anything his cheeks burn abruptly red. Lydia has an _idea_ of what he could be thinking, but she’s trying her hardest not to get her hopes up. “What finally got you to change back anyways?”

“You.” Derek answers immediately, his cheeks flushing darker. “I mean, I could tell you were scared, but I sensed you were trying to protect me. And honestly, I was going to just take the three of them out, you know, fully shifted, but I heard you say that I was your _friend_ , and your voice was so strong and your heart didn’t skip and I just…”

She loves him.

It wasn’t always romantic love, but she’s cared deeply for Derek from the time she decided she was going to go back out into the woods. It wasn’t her intention, and _caring_ about anyone isn’t exactly her forte, but for him…

“Of course I’m your friend Derek,” she squeezes his hand, forcing herself to look up at him. He’s staring down at her, lips parted just slightly and eyes soft and warm. “I want to keep being your friend, I like hearing your voice and I want to get to know you, this you.”

“You like the sound of my voice?” He teases. Up this close she can see the dimples in his cheeks and the shadows his eyelashes cast when he blinks.

“Mmmm, it’s better than the growling and the giant teeth thing you had going on,” she’s leaning closer and she can’t help it, pulled in by the heat radiating from his body and the smell of old spice and laundry detergent.

“Hey Lydia,” his thumb pulls at her chin, warm and soft. “I like the sound of your voice too.” He leans closer, hesitant, like he’s checking for permission. Lydia surges up to meet him, sighing when their lips finally meet in an almost chaste kiss. “Is this-” She grabs a handful of his shirt and drags him back down, this time tracing her tongue across his bottom lip until he moans quietly.

“This is definitely okay,” she huffs against his mouth, pushing at his chest until he falls back against the couch. She crawls into his lap, feeling victorious when one of his big hands slides up her bare thigh, the other curling at her waist. Derek drags her closer, chest to chest, his lips dragging across her collarbone, nipping and licking at her throat. Lydia tilts her chin and lets him, for once not concerned about the love bites he might leave behind. In fact she might even _want_ them, wants him to mark her up and claim her for everyone to see.

“I want to do this, for real,” she states when he comes up for air, curling her hands around his biceps. Derek’s face lights up in the most beautiful smile she’s ever seen, and she knows he has to hear the way her heart trips over itself.

“Good,” he huffs, sliding one hand up her back to slip into her hair. He pulls her down into an open mouthed kiss, his tongue slick and hot as it slides against hers. Lydia moans and lets herself melt, pushing her hands up beneath his soft shirt, tracing the muscles she finds beneath.

There’s something poetic about feeling utterly safe in the arms of a man some consider to be a beast. But she trusts Derek with her life, and she wants nothing more than to know him, every nook and cranny of his mind and body.

She loves him, and she thinks he might love her too.


	4. How To Hook A Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Scott  
> Tags: high school AU, alive Hale family, Derek & Laura are twins, past Stiles/Cora, possible Allison/Kira/Lydia/Malia, Possible Cora/Lydia, vague mentions of past Derek/Kate, humor  
> Characters: Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Cora Hale, Laura Hale, Malia Tate, Allison Argent, Kira Yukimura, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd Isaac Lahey, Danny Mahealani, Ken Yukimura  
> Rating: Teen & Up  
> Prompt: A story about 3 siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also posted on [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/138490494217/how-to-hook-a-hale).  
> not betaed and probably brimming with spelling and grammar errors... i'm very sorry

** 0\. Prologue **

“Okay here’s the deal,” Stiles whispers in Scott’s ear as they push open the doors of the high school. “There’s three rules every new kid needs to know.” Scott sighs and rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s not exactly qualified to be a _new kid_. He grew up in Beacon Hills, his best friend is in Beacon Hills, and just because his dad insisted he should try going to San Fran Prep for a couple of years doesn’t mean he suddenly _forgot_ about Beacon Hills. Stiles of course, is more than willing to be an unnecessary tour guide.

“Stiles, I don’t need-”

“Hush young Padawan, your yoda I will be.” Scott stares blankly at him, if only because he knows it will piss him off. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six - “You _still_ haven’t watched Star Wars oh my _god_. I don’t know how we’re friends Scotty I swear.”

“Just tell me the three rules dude,” Scott chuckles, trying to figure out where room 135 is. Somehow, he and Stiles are in the same homeroom. They _shouldn’t_ be, since usually homerooms are split up alphabetically. But Scott has a feeling that Stiles did _something_ that reset the whole system.

“Right. Rule number one, don’t ever, _ever_ eat the beef and bean surprise in the cafeteria. It looks fucking good, but you’re guaranteed to spend the rest of the day in the shitter.” Stiles steers him down another hallway with his shoulder, making some complicated face at Lydia Martin when they walk past her. “That’s Lydia Martin, queen bee and goddess of my heart.”

“Stiles I _know_. We dated in seventh grade, remember?”

“Anyways,” Stiles continues, herding Scott into room 135. There’s a few students scattered around, most of them he recognizes, but they give him curious looks nonetheless. “Rule number two, if Finstock asks you how many lacrosse players it takes to change a lightbulb, the answer is _always_ seventeen.”

“What?” Scott flops down into a chair, dropping his backpack on the floor. “That doesn’t even make-”

“Rule number three!” Stiles cuts him off, pulling a pen out of Scott’s bag and twirling it between his fingers. “The Hale siblings are off limits. Don’t even try.”

Scott frowns. That seems a little harsh. It’s not like he’s _looking_ to date someone right now, but how can a whole family just be kiboshed?

“Why, do you have a crush on all three of them?”

“No,” Stiles laughs, bitter. “You remember Derek right? He dated this college chick and it ended really badly, and the whole family closed ranks. I tried to ask his younger sister to the spring fling last year and I had to fill out a fucking application man. It was insane. And totally not worth it. She spent the whole dance mooning over Lydia.”

Scott’s about to make a comment on how he can’t exactly blame her, when the door swings open, and Stiles’ cheeks turn abruptly red. The girl that walks in has her head held high, long dark hair falling straight down to her shoulder blades, severe eyebrows and harsh lips framing her rather pretty face. It takes him a moment, but Scott recognizes her, though he thinks it might be the way she glares at Stiles that really brings it all home. _This_ is Cora Hale.

“They’re also a bunch of miserable assholes,” Stiles huffs under his breath, glaring back at Cora through his lashes. “So it’s not even worth it.”

“Mhmmmm,” Scott agrees easily, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cora settles into a seat in the very back. She kicks her feet up on the chair in front of her, glaring at every person that nears it.

Scott forgets about her soon enough, distracted by the arrival of Mr. Yukimura, their homeroom teacher. He seems to be pretty awesome actually, young enough to be chill and with a daughter that is apparently a junior too, which means he seems to get teenagers a little bit better than most teachers. Mr. Yukimura hands out their schedules and locker combos and all those ridiculous health forms that everyone has to have their parents or guardians fill out every year.

Scott and Stiles are comparing schedules, trying to figure out what classes they share, when the door swings open, and the most beautiful guy he’s ever laid eyes on _swaggers_ in. A letterman jacket hangs from his shoulders unzipped, revealing a v-neck white t-shirt stretched tight across a broad chest. His hair is spiked with probably too much gel, but his eyes are the prettiest green Scott’s ever seen. Stiles lets out a nearly inaudible groan, but the guy’s gaze swings towards them anyways, thick eyebrows dropping into a scowl.

Oh no.

“Derek,” Mr. Yukimura says from his desk. “I heard you were looking to fill up your free period with TA credits?” The guy nods and steps up to the desk, responding in a low murmur that Scott can’t quite parse out. He’s too busy connecting the dots anyways, his brain working double overtime.

“Is that…?”

“Derek Hale, yup.” Stiles growls, glowering up towards the front of the classroom. “Major dickhead.”

“But wasn’t he…” Scott trails off. He _remembers_ Derek Hale from elementary school, remembers the kid with too big teeth and ears and eyebrows, scrawny and awkward but still nice. He used to get called “the ugly twin”, and the only time Scott ever got a black eye was standing up for him on the playground, even though Derek was a year older than him and his twin sister Laura seemed to have it handled anyways. He’d always thought Derek was cute, with his big front teeth and the way he held both of his sisters’ hands when they walked home from the bus stop.

But this… this Adonis at the front of the classroom right now isn’t exactly cute. He doesn’t look like he needs Scott to stand up for him anymore either, but Scott knows deep in his heart he would do it anyways.

“Dude you’re staring,” Stiles hisses, pulling him out of his thoughts with an elbow to the ribs. His cheeks heat up as he coughs, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck and pretending he can’t feel both sets of Hale glares boring into him.

San Fran Prep is looking pretty good right now. 

Scott manages to forget about the Hales and all of Stiles other rules within minutes of the bell ringing. He's only been gone for two years, but Stiles has curated a slightly different group of friends. The majority of them seem to be girls, which Scott finds vaguely entertaining considering the fact that Stiles still thinks he has no game. He remembers Malia from elementary school, and Lydia of course, who acts like she can't stand Stiles, but smiles softly at him whenever he's not looking. Then there's Allison, who moved here two years ago, and Kira, who turns out to be Mr. Yukimura’s daughter. They're all incredibly beautiful, but Scott seems to get the impression that the four of them are in some kind of polyamorous relationship, which is also something he _does not_ need to be visualizing.

Most of his classmates seem to recognize him, though he feels like he might be on the receiving end of more appraising looks then he's used to. He's aware that he's grown up, that sixteen year old Scott McCall looks a bit different than fourteen year old Scott McCall, but he's not sure he likes the attention. Needless to say, he forgets all about Derek Hale and his own transformation.

Well, until gym class.

Scott and Stiles are in the midst of an argument regarding the plausibility of werewolves, each of them in various stages of undress, when Derek Hale walks into the locker room. There seems to be a gaggle of underclassmen following him, silently, which is creepy and rather unnerving. Derek is ignoring them, talking lowly to Vernon Boyd. The pair stop in front of lockers with locks already on them, spinning the dials like it’s part of a routine. Scott gets a glimpse of a football pads when Derek’s locker pops open, only to have his view blocked by Derek’s shirtless, tattooed, back.

Oh no.

Scott knows he’s making some kind of face, knows he’s probably blushing judging by the heat he can _feel_ radiating off his cheeks. He pulls his shirt on and pretends to get stuck in it, if only to give himself time to try and regain some composure. Now is not the time to develop a crush. And he can’t just go around assuming that Derek is the same sweet kid he used to be in elementary school. Scott’s not the same, Stiles isn’t the same, _no one_ remains unchanged. Everything about this is a terrible idea.

When he finally pulls his shirt all the way down, Derek is staring at him across the locker room, eyebrows dipping low and his mouth turned down in the corners. Great.

“Fucking dickweed,” Stiles grumbles under his breath, glaring somewhere over Derek’s shoulder. It’s quiet, but Scott’s sure Derek can read Stiles’ lips, judging by the way the tips of his ears turn red and his slight frown transforms into a sneer.

“That was kinda mean dude,” Scott murmurs softly, bending to tie his shoes. “What did he ever do to you?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, which means he doesn’t have any actual proof, just this _feeling_ or rumors or something. Which, while Stiles’ gut instinct is often right, Scott has seen it backfire more than once. Not to mention that years of best friendship have only made Scott _want_ to challenge Stiles’ observations and prove him wrong. Which is exactly what he’s going to do with Derek Hale.

As if Stiles is aware of Scott’s silent vow, he sticks close when they make their way out onto the lacrosse field, practically breathing down his neck. Scott would tell him off, but he’s a little pre-occupied with the way Derek Hale’s ass jiggles just a little bit when he walks.

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles hisses out something between a warning and an oath, his hand thumping hard against Scott’s chest. “You’ve got that look and I don’t like it.” Scott just smiles and shrugs him off, trying not to be too obvious as he watches Derek chat with Boyd, soccer ball tucked under one arm.

Derek picks him to be on his team.

Derek almost smiles at him.

Derek passes him the ball and he scores a goal.

Derek asks about his tattoo in the locker room.

 

Scott’s a little bit in love.

Stiles is _definitely_ not.

“Bro, excluding the fact that Derek’s a dick,” he explains as they walk out to the parking lot. “It’s still _impossible_ to date him. You think trying to get with Cora was bad? Kira just tried to do a group project with him last year and _both_ his sisters came to every meeting!”

Scott shrugs, hooking his back pack securely over both shoulders.

“I’ll just have to win his sisters over then.”

“Are you…” Stiles squints at him, trying and failing to grasp the jeep’s door handle. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Scott grins, swinging his leg over the seat of his bike. He knew Stiles would come around, eventually.

“Like a heart attack.” He pulls on his helmet, flipping up the visor so Stiles can _see_ the malicious twinkle in his eyes.

“Don’t joke about that shit bro,” Stiles points a finger that’s probably supposed to be menacing in his direction. “And I’m not helping you.”

* * *

 

** 1\. Cora **

When Scott walks into homeroom the next day, Cora Hale is already in her seat, dark hair falling across her face as she leans over her phone. She’s almost smiling, her lips pulling up in the corners and her eyes twinkling. That alone emboldens Scott, so he drops down into the desk beside her, smiling merrily when she lifts her head and scowls.

“Scott McCall,” he offers, holding his hand out for her to shake.

“I know who you are,” she snaps, glaring at his proffered hand. Scott shrugs and drops it, leaning back as nonchalantly as possible. “What do you want? If Stilinski put you up to this, the answer is no.”

“I just wanted to reintroduce myself,” Scott says easily, unable to hold back a smirk when the door swings open and Stiles comes marching in.

“Okay I have a-” Stiles stops short when he sees Cora, his grin morphing into a sneer. “ _Hale_.” He drops into the chair on Scott’s other side, backpack hitting the floor with a suspiciously loud thud. “We’ll discuss this later.” He sniffs, nose tilting up in the air like he’s _offended_.

“I thought you weren’t helping me?”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles hisses back, refusing to look at him. “You _need_ my help Scott. You will _fail_ without my guidance. I’m like the Obi Wan to your Anakin. ”

“So you’re saying I’m going to become Darth Vader then?” Scott replies off handedly, staring determinedly at the desk in front of him. He waits for it, almost giddy at the reaction he _knows_ he’s going to get.

“Well I mean… _wait_.” A hand clamps down on his shoulder, hard. “When did you?”

“Hayden Christensen is hot bro,” Scott shrugs, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles groans, sinking back into his own chair. “I don’t know whether to start on the fact that you watched the prequels only, or that fact that your taste is _terrible_. Ewan McGregor is the real hottie.”

“Are you kidding me?” Scott turns to find Cora regarding them both with an expression of pure disdain. “Carrie Fisher is the most beautiful person to star in the entire Star Wars franchise.”

Scott’s grin finally breaks through. It looks like he doesn’t need Stiles’ plan after all.

By the time the bell rings, they’ve made tentative plans to watch Episode IV this weekend at Scott’s house. He even managed to slip in that Cora’s siblings and their friends could come, and Cora actually agreed, as long as Scott and Stiles’ friends were there too.

Now all he has to do is make it through the rest of the week without screwing anything up.

 

“We’re still using my plan.” Stiles announces at lunch, pulling a frankly terrifying binder full of crumpled sheets of paper and graphs and charts out of his backpack. Scott levels him with a _look_. He doesn’t need Stiles to hold his hand for this, and he certainly doesn’t need whatever nonsense is in this binder. “I even found a copy of the application I had to fill out last year to ask Cora to the dance.”  Scott frowns at the actual _packet_ that lands in front of him, the front page already filled in with Stiles’ name and address and which college he thought he wanted to go to. Hesitantly, Scott flips through it, balking at the legitimate _essay_ Stiles wrote about why he wanted to bring Cora to the Spring Fling. The scary part is, Stiles didn’t even use up all of the available space.

“Do you want to date Cora?” Kira asks, slipping onto the bench beside Scott, tray full of French fries and strawberry jello.

“Derek.” Lydia corrects, smirking at Scott when she settles at the head of the table. “You’re predictable McCall,” is all she says in response to his horrified look. “Luckily for you, you have all of us to help you prep for this. It’s going to be a challenge.” She stares thoughtfully across the cafeteria, in the direction of the table Derek and Laura always sit at. It’s pathetic that Scott’s only been back two days and he knows this information. But it’s like he’s tuned in to Derek, completely aware of where he is at all times. “Laura is _tough_. She even beat me in debate once…” Lydia trails off, flush rising high on her cheeks as she taps her chin. “Cora is even tougher.”

With a sigh Scott pushes the application back to Stiles, shoving a handful of Doritos in his mouth. They’re all being ridiculously dramatic about this. It’s not that _hard_ to get people to like you. Lydia and Stiles just have abrasive personalities is all.

“Oh that reminds me,” he starts when Allison and Malia join them, one tray filled with turkey wraps, the other with a giant plate of salad. He frowns as they start dividing things up amongst themselves and Kira, until each of them has a suitably balanced meal in front of them.

“I refuse to eat caf food,” Lydia explains with a sniff, a carrot stick clenched in her hand. “It’s not good for you.” The other three girls roll their eyes, obviously used to this argument.

“Anyways,” Scott continues. “We’re having a movie night at my house on Saturday. We planned it with Cora this morning.”

The table falls eerily silent, and when Scott looks up, strawberry jelly clinging to his lip, the four girls are staring at him like he grew another head. “What.”

“Cora Hale-”

“Wants to watch-”

“Movies with us?”

“Um yeah?” Scott licks his lips, sharing a commiserating look with Stiles. He doesn’t get one in return, in fact, Stiles seems to be regarding him with renewed awe. “In fact, you guys being there was one of the conditions? I told her she should bring her siblings and her friends.” Five sets of eyes immediately flick to the table just behind the one Derek and Laura sit at, where Cora Hale seems to be holding court with her friends. Scott vaguely recognizes them, but he can’t recall their names for the life of them. While he’s watching, Cora leans away from her table, cupping a hand around Laura’s ear and whispering something. Suddenly Scott finds three set of Hale eyes focused on him, a little curious and a lot intimidating. Flushing, he turns back to his friends, chugging down some milk in hopes of soothing the burn in his cheeks.

“I’m impressed McCall,” Lydia says finally, biting into a carrot with a sick crunch. “I’d keep doing what you’re doing, and wouldn’t take _any_ advice from Stilinski either.”

Stiles pouts.

Scott grins, victorious.

* * *

 

** 2\. Laura **

Scott’s nervous.

He hadn’t quite considered just what having a large group of relative strangers over to his mother’s house might entailed. He’s been cleaning all day, scrubbing the downstairs toilet and washing dish after dish. Stiles has been absolutely no help, following him around blasting “inspirational” music from his phone and doing a _terrible_  job of calming Scott down. It’s not like this is even a _date._ Who knows if Derek will even _come_.

Cora actually texts him around four in the afternoon, confirming the time and his address. Scott waffles for a bit on whether he should ask, but eventually he asks her home many people she’s bringing, citing food and drink supplies as his reason.

All he gets is a very cryptic “5 plus me”.

Great.

By the time Malia and Kira let themselves in, Scott has worked himself up into a frenzy. He hides it well, the easy smile that comes naturally to him a perfect disguise for the nerves tangling in his belly. There’s pizza on the way and cupcakes in the kitchen and a bags of unpopped popcorn sitting in front of the microwave. Stiles has already eaten the majority of the Cheetos and started in on the gummy worms, but Scott knows better than to try and stop him. They’re alike in that way, generally taking being told not to do something as a challenge. There is no doubt in his mind that Stiles would _demolish_ all the food in this house with ease.

Scott guides the girls into the living room, ignoring the uncomfortably knowing looks Malia keeps giving him. She knows _nothing_. As soon as they’re settled Allison and Lydia arrive, bearing gifts of soda and more candy. Scott thanks them graciously, eyeing Lydia’s giant purse with suspicion. He dated her for like a month in seventh grade, and they went on two actual dates. They were both to the local movie theater, and he feels like kicking himself for not considering this earlier. Lydia would _never_ agree to watch Star Wars so easily. Her favorite thing is rom coms, which she describes as the one mind melting activity she allows herself to enjoy. The probability of there being a copy of The Notebook on her person is astronomically high. Scott considers confronting her about it, but Lydia happens to be just a tad scarier than Cora Hale, so he’s going to take his chances. Plus, the fact that Cora obviously has a crush on Lydia might lessen the fallout.

“So Scott, ready for your first group date?” Lydia asks coyly, looking almost regal as she sits on the arm of the couch. Scott rolls his eyes.

“I’ve been on group dates before,” he explains, pacing across the length of the living room. “And this isn’t a date. I don’t even know if Derek will be here. It’s just part of the plan, alright?”

“Oh, he’ll be here.” Allison says smugly, grinning when Malia holds out her fist for a bump. They are the _worst_ , honestly. Before he can figure out a way to articulate that without sounding mean, the doorbell rings.

With sweaty palms he throws open the front door, pasting a sunny grin on his face. Cora, of course, does not look at all impressed with his welcome, shoving a plate of cookies at his chest.

“We’re here McCall,” she grumbles, as if he can’t _see_ that. But Scott’s too busy staring at the crew she brought with her too really care. With a huff, Cora pushes past him, probably going to stare at Lydia or something. If Scott was more like Stiles, he might make a comment about it, but instead he turns his attention the relative strangers standing on his front porch.

“Well um, I’m Scott,” he waves, instantly feeling like a giant nerd. “I uh, don’t know if you all remember me but um…”

“Isaac,” the tallest one offers, saving Scott from himself. Scott remembers him vaguely, the curly blondish hair and big sad blue eyes still the same, but the chubby cheeks of childhood have melted away to reveal cheekbones that could cut glass. “This is Erica,” he motions to the blonde girl standing beside him, who grins a distinctly predatory way. “And I think you know Derek and Laura.” Scott nods, shooting a tentative smile in Derek’s direction. The barely there dimpled smile he gets in return makes his stomach flip, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot. Laura is regarding him with the utmost suspicion, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And I know Boyd too,” Scott offers, quickly trying to tone down his smile when Boyd raises an eyebrow and nods. Yup. This is going to be an interesting afternoon. “Well um, pizzas on the way and everybody else is inside, so why don’t you come on in.” He steps back to let them in, heart skipping when Derek’s arm brushes against his own. This is so ridiculous.

 

“ _Oh. My. God_.”

Scott starts to grin before he even makes it into the kitchen. Laura’s standing there, half eaten cupcake in one hand, a look of pure _joy_ on her face. “Red velvet cupcakes McCall?” She asks, shoving the rest of it in her mouth. Scott tries to rearrange his face into something that’s _not_ guilty or disgusted (her chewing is kind of gross, is all), but he knows he’s failing miserably. “Did you _plan_ this?” She asks once she’s done chewing, reaching for another cupcake. “What’s your motive?”

Scott gulps and shoots a glance towards the living room, hoping, no _praying_ , that no one is listening in on this conversation.

“I might have run into your mom at the grocery store yesterday,” he shrugs, staring hard at the linoleum floor. “She uh, mentioned red velvet was your favorite.” Laura’s eyes narrow again, and Scott feels eerily transparent as she watches him, all while demolishing another cup cake.

“I thought you were trying to date Cora,” she muses. “But everyone knows that she likes… and then you make me… _oh_.” Her expression morphs into a smug grin, and Scott instantly regrets all of the choices he’s made that have led him to this point. She’s going to expose him, or sabotage him, or… or _something_. She’s _scary_ is what she is. “Stilinski told you huh?”

Scott nods slowly, checking quickly over his shoulder to make sure no one’s eavesdropping.

“Hmmm,” Laura hums, peeling the wrapper off _another_ cupcake. Apparently her stomach is a bottomless pit. Her expression softens, and Scott feels something loosen in his chest. “I still remember that time you stepped in between Derek and Darren Johnson on the playground and got a black eye for your trouble… If you make me these cupcakes every once and awhile, you’ve got my vote.”

“Really?” Scott’s head whips up so fast he might get a crick in his neck, but he really didn’t think this would be so easy.

“Yeah,” Laura laughs, her gaze flicking to the living room over Scott’s shoulder. “But don’t get too excited, I think your plan to get Cora’s approval might be failing.”

Right on cue, there’s a swell of laughter and bickering from the living room, Stiles’, Cora’s and Lydia’s sharp voices rise above the rest. Scott groans, his head falling back and his eyes fluttering closed. Why can’t anything be easy? “Don’t worry kid,” Laura laughs, patting his chest. “I have faith in you.” Scott opens his eyes in time to see her slip past him, entire tray of cupcakes balanced in her hands.

 

* * *

 

** 3\. Derek **

They’re watching The Proposal.

Scott’s not even sure why he’s surprised, Lydia is an immovable force who somehow managed to get both Erica _and_ Laura on her side. Cora had given up on pouting once Lydia squeezed onto the loveseat beside her, whispering sarcastic comments in her ear. Stiles on the other hand, was continuing to pout, his arms crossed tight across his chest, even with Kira’s fingers carding through his hair.

Scott would try to comfort him, but he’s a little pre-occupied. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, Derek’s knee pressed lightly against his shoulder. Isaac’s beside him, Erica’s legs looped over his shoulders in a way that look incredibly dangerous, but Isaac doesn’t seem to mind. Scott hit it off with him immediately, their mutual love for dirt bikes giving them a common ground to start off on. But that’s not the distracting part, oh no, _that_ would be Derek Hale’s fingers tracing across the back of Scott’s neck. It’s a barely there touch, so miniscule that no one else can probably tell Derek’s even moving, but it sure is happening. Scott’s certain his cheeks have to be bright red, but he leans into the touch anyways, purposefully ignoring the knowing looks Laura keeps sending his way. (Plus, he can’t really take her seriously when she’s got frosting and red cupcake crumbs all over her face).

He tries to focus on the movie, or anything, really, but it’s damn near impossible. He wishes this was a real date, wishes he was getting to know Derek instead of watching Malia braid Stiles’ hair and listening to Cora and Lydia whispering suspiciously over in the corner. There’s no one to blame but himself, unfortunately this plan was all his own doing. Well… if he thinks hard enough he’s sure he can place _some_ of the blame on Stiles, but there’s no point in that. With a sigh he pushes himself to his feet.

“Anybody need refills on anything?” He asks, forcing a bright smile. Pretty much everyone shakes their heads, though Laura does hold out her now empty cupcake tray.

“More cupcakes?”

“I don’t think there’s any left,” Scott laughs, taking the tray from her and heading back out into the kitchen. He dumps the tray in the sink, neatening up the counter a bit just for something to do. Sometimes he just needs a few seconds alone to breath.

“Hey.”

Scott knows who it is before he even turns around, probably creepily tuned into a voice he’s only heard a handful of times. Derek’s leaning against the counter, looking almost _too_ casual.

“Hey,” Scott replies softly, eyes flicking probably super obviously across Derek’s frame. But it’s less of an objectifying thing and more of a studying thing. He picks up on the tense set to Derek’s jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles because his fingers are pressing so hard into the counter tops. He’s uncomfortable, or nervous, or _something_ , and Scott just wants to fix it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah I um,” Derek’s other hand lifts to the back of his neck, chin dipping as he honest to god _blushes_. Scott is definitely a little bit smitten. And absolutely _not_ staring at the flex of Derek’s bicep. Obviously. “I just was wondering, we uh, our first home game is next Friday night? And I was wondering if you’d want to come? I mean, you don’t have to or anything but I just-”

“Sure!” Scott cuts off his rambling with a beaming smile. Derek blushes all the way to the roots of his hair, and it’s probably the most adorable thing he’s seen in his entire life.  They just stand there, smiling at each other, in a way that should probably be awkward. Scott knows he should move, or say something, or do something, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the tiny smile on Derek’s face and the dimples cutting into his cheeks.

“Yo Scotty!” Stiles yells from the living room, effectively breaking the spell. “Get me another ‘dew bro!” Scott laughs and he knows it sounds bitter, unable to quell the annoyance that flashes up inside of him. He turns to the fridge to hide his face, grabbing a can of Mountain Dew for Stiles and a bottle of water for himself.

“You want anything Derek?” He asks, grabbing another water when Derek requests one. Their fingers brush when he hands it too him, electricity zinging all the way up his arm to tingle at the base of his skull. He thinks Derek might feel it too, judging by the way his ears burn red. Scott’s annoyance melts away as quickly as it came, settling back into the nervous happiness he’s been operating on since they made plans with Cora at school.

This might be the start of something good.

Friday comes faster than Scott could have imagined. The entire school is buzzing with excitement, the halls decorated with posters and streamers, the football players swaggering around with their jerseys on, eye black and maroon and white face paint used to various levels of ridiculousness. Stiles is waiting for Scott in the parking lot, glowering at the students full of school spirit lounging out on the front steps before the bell rings from behind the windshield of his Jeep. It brings a smile to Scott’s face, not because he likes seeing his friend annoyed, but because Stiles’ face is so pinched and aggravated, he can’t help but laugh. Not to mention that during lacrosse season, Stiles has been known to paint his _entire_ body with maroon and white paint.

“Out of fucking control is what this is,” Stiles grumbles as he tumbles out of the jeep, actually _hissing_ when a group of cheerleaders walk past, pom-poms hanging off their backpacks. “Our football team isn’t even _that_ good.”

Scott just smirks and falls into step beside him. He _knows_ that’s not true, mostly because he has a giant crush on the quarterback and might have spent the majority of this week finding every piece of information he can about the Beacon Hills football team. But he also knows if he says anything, Stiles will then be very aware of how obsessive (and Stiles-like, honestly) he’s become.

“I come to school to _learn_ Scott, to enhance and strengthen my young mind, not to be accosted by jocks wearing face pain- oh my _god_ Hale quit lurking in shadows and jumping out at unsuspecting young boys _fuck_.”

“Hey Scott,” Derek says, voice soft and shy. He’s obviously ignoring the glare Stiles is burning into the side of his face, his pretty greenish grayish blueish eyes focused unnervingly on Scott. “Can I uh, talk to you for a minute?” Scott nods immediately, probably too hard and too fast, also ignoring the glare that Stiles shifts instantly on to him. Stiles mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _traitor_ under his breath as he stomps off, scowling at several members of the marching band who start to play the rally song on their instruments when he sweeps by. Scott doesn’t watch him for long, too distracted by Derek’s long fingers wrapped around his wrist as he pulls him into an empty classroom.

He looks mad, but it hadn’t taken Scott long to figure out that the default Derek Hale Angry Face is actually the default Derek Hale Over Thinking Face.

“I uh,” Derek starts, slipping his letterman jacket off his shoulders. It’s incredibly cliché, the attraction Scott feels to a guy wearing a football jersey, but he can’t really bring himself to hate it. “I know we haven’t actually gone on like a date or anything but…” Derek scuffs the toe of his Nikes across the floor. “Well, I was wondering if you’d maybe want to wear this tonight? If you’re coming to the game I mean…” He holds the jacket out awkwardly, cheeks burning brilliantly as he stares at the floor.

“Wow I um, I wasn’t-”

“You don’t have to-” Scott rips the jacket out of Derek’s hands before he can take it back, slipping his arms into the sleeves and burying his face it the collar. The arms are a tad bit long but the shoulders fit perfectly and it smells like Derek, warm and clean and a bit like axe. His cheeks heat when he realizes he’s _sniffing_ Derek’s jacket like some kind of weirdo, but when he glances up Derek looks beyond pleased. The heat in his eyes send warmth crawling down Scott’s spine, curling hot and burning in the pit of his stomach.

“Well I gotta get to homeroom,” Derek says after a moment, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But um, I’ll see you tonight?” He grins when Scott nods eagerly, and Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen a prettier smile in his entire life.

People stare at him all day, but Scott doesn’t take the jacket off. Not when Stiles splutters, not when Cora glares, and definitely not when Laura tries to give him a high five in the hallway. He wears the B over his heart like a badge of honor, his finger tracing reverently across the _Hale_ stitched on the left side. This is a Big Deal. It’s one hell of a declaration for Derek to make.

Scott goes to the game, squished on the bleachers between Stiles and Kira under the bright lights. He waves when Derek looks their way from the fifty yard line, and he feels like his heart might fly right out of its cage when he gets a wave in return. The team plays well but Derek plays _great_ , throwing pass after pass to Danny, one of their wide receivers. With ten seconds left Derek throws a perfect pass to Danny, who takes off down the field, dodging the defense and taking a flying leap into the end zone. The crowd explodes, surging out onto the field to celebrate.

Scott fights through the crowd towards Derek, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. Their eyes meet over the heads of a group of girls in between them, and it’s like some shit from the movies, where all the noise fades out and all Scott can see is Derek’s beaming facing and his sweaty helmet hair. It’s slow motion until it’s not, and Scott throws himself at Derek wrapping his arms around his shoulders and laughing. Derek’s hands feel so big when they wrap around his waist, hoisting him up and holding him close.

“I heard you cheering for me, before I threw that,” Derek whispers, breathless. It’s so cheesy that Scott wants to laugh, this _can’t_ be real life, but then Derek’s chapped lips and pressing against his, and shit’s suddenly getting real. Scott holds on for dear life and kisses him back, laughing against Derek’s mouth when a cheer goes up around them and smirking when realizes he can actually feel the heat radiating off of Derek’s cheeks.

“You still have to fill out a form McCall!!” Laura yells, waving a handful of crumpled papers in his direction. He’s considering just filling them out right here, right now, but Derek keeps pressing these delicate little kisses to his throat and he’s almost positive he hears Lydia say that she’s ‘ _operating as Mr. McCall’s representative and will take care of filing all the paperwork_ ’, and Stiles looks to be making out with Danny Mahealani in the end zone, and he thinks everything is going to work out just fine.

 

[They do work things out. Or, everyone else works things out over ice cream at Alex’s Ice Cream Shoppe while Derek and Scott make out (and share ice cream) in the back seat of Derek’s car. Stiles seems to have made a 180 in the school spirit department, with maroon and white paint smeared all over his face and a pom-pom mysteriously appearing in his possession. The fact the paint is quite obviously second hand transfer doesn’t seem to be bothering him. Lydia came to the meeting well prepared, and she (along with her ‘team’ made up of Allison, Malia and Kira) negotiates away pretty much all the rules that Laura and Cora try to enact. Of course, there is a large possibility that Cora didn’t stand a chance against Lydia and Laura’s actually a huge softy, so the win might not be as big as Lydia thinks it is. But Scott lets her have it. He did get a hot quarterback out of the deal after all].


	5. 2,547 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Scott  
> Tags: future fic, pining, Jackson + Danny live together (do with that what you will), Jackson's still kinda rude, Scott goes to find Derek  
> Characters: Scott McCall, Derek Hale, Jackson Whittemore, Danny Mahealani, Alan Deaton, Melissa McCall, (Rest of pack mentioned)  
> Rating: Teen & Up  
> Prompt: A story set in London (I totally cheated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Leigh!! I hope you like this!

Two thousand five hundred forty seven days.

Not that he’s been counting or anything, but he did calculate it one day (one thousand three hundred and forty nine days ago). He figured it out again on this long ass flight to London.

It’s been two thousand five hundred and forty seven days since he last saw Derek Hale.

Scott doesn’t even know for sure if Derek’s in London, but he heard from Argent who heard from Isaac who heard from Jackson that Derek was in the area. They haven’t spoken, not since Mexico, not since Derek died trying to save Scott and came back to life. He can never forget the way Derek looked that day, expression soft and backlit by the sunrise, eyes crinkling in the corners and beard immaculate. He was beautiful then (always had been, really) but there was something about the Zen Derek that was just _easy_ to Scott.

It didn’t hurt at first, not seeing him. Their relationship had been rocky from the start, and going weeks, months even, without seeing Derek hadn’t been unusual. And then shit when down in Beacon Hills like it always does, and while sometimes Scott wished for Derek to come home and save him, he never quite dwelled on it. He was fighting for his life and his _pack_ after all, and just knowing that one member, the one member he knew would always have his back, was safe and sound and far away from Beacon Hills was enough to push him onward.

No, the missing Derek didn’t start till day three hundred ninety nine, when Scott was all alone in his Davis dorm room. He had never been truly alone since the day he met Stiles on the playground, and this feeling of separation was already getting to him. But he felt connected to most of his pack, text messages and voicemails on his phone, weekly Skype dates already planned. But Derek… He hadn’t heard Derek’s voice in ages. He almost called him, finger hovering over Derek’s name in his phone, but then his new roommate had burst in, smelling overwhelmingly like magic and ozone, and Scott had let it go.

Turns out the roommate (their name is Sam) was an emissary in training for a pack in Washington. After the initial showdown (that included some posturing between Scott and Sam’s alpha, who was helping him move in) everything settled down and Scott gained not only a new friend but his first official pack alliance.

But he still thought about Derek. It wasn’t constant, just that _thing_ that was always niggling in the back of his mind. He wondered why Derek didn’t call, wondered if he wanted to cut ties with them all together. He wouldn’t blame him exactly, Derek’s life had been ruined over and over, and Scott and Stiles had been present for a huge number of the catastrophic events. But he can’t help but think that maybe Derek still blames him, maybe deep down inside Derek can’t stop himself from thinking that this group of meddling kids only made his life worse. Scott likes to think that in the end they all helped each other, that the blame here falls on Kate and Gerard Argent and Peter Hale, but sometimes… sometimes he’s not so sure.

College came and went and then came veterinary school, which Scott is still slogging his way through. He’s been doing field work with Deaton officially now, and there’s benefits to having a former emissary as a boss. It was Deaton who finally asked Scott about it, who realized there was something _off_ , something missing, something Scott couldn’t fix. It was less like Deaton _let_ Scott take a week off and more like he _forced_ him, even going so far as to buy the plane ticket for him.

Scott hadn’t told anyone where he was going.

Stiles knew he was going to London, but not _why_. Lydia knew he was taking off, he’d given her all the passwords and information on the pack’s bank accounts and other confidential information, just in case. Kira and Malia didn’t know much of anything, both of them out of cell service in the mountains for a few weeks. He told Liam not to worry, he’d be back soon, told Mason to keep an eye on everything (especially Liam). He made sure the sheriff knew he was gone, that he felt confident Parrish could handle anything that came their way.

Okay, he did tell one person.

His mom knew exactly what he was doing without him having to say a word. She’d hugged him close, hands rubbing up and down his spine as she told him to bring that boy home. Scott didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

He’s not second guessing himself, not exactly, he just feels like he’s floating, anchorless, almost.

There’s another werewolf on this flight but he’s pretending he hasn’t noticed them. The last thing anyone needs is flashing eyes and fang induced panic while high in the air over the ocean.

So he slips on his headphones and tries to lose himself in music, but all he can really focus on is Derek. Would Derek look any older? Scott knows _he_ does. Would Derek have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a husband or wife? Would he have kids? Or would be living the life of solitude that he’d always seemed determined to force himself into?

 At some point Scott drifts off, jolting awake when the landing gear drops. He slams his eyes closed to hide the instinctual flash of red, only opening them when he feels the alpha power settle.

“It’s okay dear,” the elderly lady sitting beside him says kindly, patting at his arm. “It feels worse than it really is.” Scott laughs in surprise, smiling warmly at her.

“Thank you ma’am,” he whispers, ducking his head. “Planes aren’t exactly my favorite thing.” If Stiles were here he’s make some ridiculous comment about how the wolf needs to run free or something, and Scott would roll his eyes and Malia would probably snap her teeth, but the lady just smiles sweetly and leaves her hand on his arm in comfort.

He’s not sure what to expect when he ambles down into arrivals, back pack with a few changes of clothes slung over his shoulder. There’s a man holding a sign that says MCCALL in big block letters, wearing a polo shirt with a popped collar and indecently tight jeans and mirrored aviator sunglasses. He’s dressed exactly how Scott pictures Jackson in his head, but the guy’s skin and hair are the wrong shade, and the smirk and dimples on his face are distinctly un-Jackson-like. In fact, he looks an awful lot like…

“Danny?”

“Hey McCall! Long time no see!” Danny laughs, pulling him into a bro hug complete with shoulder thumping. Danny still smells the Armani and still looks better than pretty much everyone around him, even in the strange outfit. “I thought I’d dress like Jax so that you’d recognize me.”

It turns out that Danny moved to London to be with Jackson after junior year. Jackson needed help being a werewolf (no surprise there) and Danny didn’t necessarily enjoy living in a supernatural war zone. They started a company together and are now enjoying the perks of being multi-millionaires in their mid-twenties.

Their flat is spectacular, with shiny new appliances and wood floor and furniture that looks both expensive _and_ comfortable.

“McCall,” Jackson greets him with a handshake in his kitchen, sweatpants slung low around his hips and a t-shirt with a logo he doesn’t recognize stretched across his chest. “How’s Lydia?” It’s always Jackson’s first question, and Scott hides his smile.

“She’s good,” he replies. “Another step closer to taking over the world I think.”

“So you’re here for Hale,” Jackson says without preamble, herding Scott out into the living room. The curtains are thrown open, begging for sunlight, but the cloudy skies don’t seem to be offering any. Scott nods as he settles onto the edge of their white couch, consciously sitting on just the edge, afraid to somehow get it dirty. “I want you to know I wouldn’t have even told anyone he was here if I thought he looked happy. But the guys just looks terrible, and no one deserves that, not even him.”

“Especially not him,” Scott murmurs, refusing to let his cheeks heat when Jackson gives him a knowing look. He’s a fucking alpha now, he doesn’t have to take any shit from him.

“He’s gonna be here in five!” Danny yells from the bathroom, emerging wearing the same jeans but with a soft looking sweater. Scott turns his questioning look on Jackson, who shrugs and smirks.

“What, I’ve missed all the drama that you and Stilinski seem to cultivate.”

Scott glares but Jackson doesn’t as much as wilt, settling smugly back into his chair. With a sigh Scott jumps up and heads to their bathroom, intent on trying to get the smell of airplane off his skin before Derek gets here. Not that he expects Derek to like sniff him but at the same time he knows he will, it’s a _thing_.

“You do smell pretty rank McCall!” Jackson yells. God. Scott had forgotten how badly he always wants to punch him. Just for that, he decides to just take a shower. He had brought little bottles of his usual soap and conditioner, wanting to smell as much like himself as he can. He _really_ doesn’t want to smell like Jackson, so he’s grateful for being a little obsessed with the scent thing.

The sound of Derek’s voice cuts clearly through the noise of the shower, sending his heart skipping with nerves. He sounds the same, if only a little more tired, a little more worn down. Scott shuts off the water and hurriedly towels off, yanking on a set of clean clothes. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the fogged up mirror, over excited, eager, nervous with flushed cheeks and tousled hair, but he can’t bring himself to calm down.

He does manage to keep his pace normal as he follows the sound of voices into the kitchen, but he knows his heart has to be giving him away. Derek’s back is to him, settled into a kitchen chair like it’s something he does often. Scott can’t help but wonder if Jackson is actually a better friend than he lets on. He takes that thought back when Jackson smirks at him, like he _knows_ exactly what Scott was just thinking. But then Derek twists in his chair, and Scott can’t focus on anything else.

He looks the same, same opalescent eyes, same plush mouth, same sharp nose and thick eyebrows and cheekbones carved from marble. But he's different too, beard thicker and a few more lines around his eyes and just a little bit older. Scott suddenly feels sixteen again, unsure of himself and half way between awe and wary of this older, powerful werewolf.

“Hey,” he whispers, his mouth suddenly dry. Jackson rolls his eyes, but Danny smacks his thigh, and once again Scott can’t help but _like_ Danny Mahealani. Derek doesn’t look all that surprised, he had to have smelled Scott and heard his heartbeat, but there’s this vulnerable hope in his eyes like he thought he couldn’t believe his senses. It breaks Scott’s heart and propels him forward.

Derek meets him halfway, launching out of the chair to wrap his arms around him in a crushing hug, face buried in the crook of Scott’s neck. He smells like city, like too many people and diesel fumes, but underneath it Scott can still smell the wildness, the summer moonlight and just pure _Derek_.

“Two thousand five hundred forty eight days,” he whispers almost to himself, ignoring the pained groan Jackson lets out, his head thumping on the kitchen table.

“Shhhh,” Danny hisses, his brown eyes alight with happiness and possibly tears. “This is so fucking adorable Jax shut the fuck up.”

“ _Scott_ ,” Derek exhales his name with a shudder, his face still tucked against Scott’s neck. Scott tightens his grip, rubbing his hands up and down Derek’s back in long sweeps.

“I know,” he murmurs, pulling back just slightly and tipping Derek’s face up with his thumb. “I know.” He kisses him without really thinking about it, without considering the fact that Derek might not _want_ to be kissed. When Jackson lets out an honest to god _squawk_ he flinches back, apology already bubbling from his lips. But Derek curls a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him back in, teeth nipping at Scott’s bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. It feels good and perfect and right, and Scott just melts into Derek’s arms.

He faintly hears what sounds like Jackson forcibly dragging Danny out of the flat, murmuring something about needing to go get bread, but he’s too lost in _Derek_ to really care.

“I’m uh,” Scott swallows, trying to focus with Derek’s thumbs sweeping across his hip bones. “My flight home isn’t for a few days, maybe you could show me around?” Derek nods, their noses brushing as he leans his forehead against Scott.

“Maybe,” he pauses, looking at Scott through his lashes. “Maybe you could bring me home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Exactly no one seems surprised when Scott returns home with Derek in tow. _Apparently_ he’s been very obvious in his pining, and the only reason Deaton had said anything in the first place was because every single member of the pack had come to him to talk about it. Scott _would_ be annoyed, but he’s too busy helping Derek set up his rare books procurement business in the house they’re going to share. It might be moving too fast, but Scott’s been waiting for Derek for two thousand five hundred and fifty three days, and he’s not about to wait for one more.


	6. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Lydia  
> Tags: future fic, getting together, Derek lives in mexico  
> Characters: Derek Hale, Lydia Martin, pack mentions  
> Rating: Mature  
> Prompt: A story about finding something that has been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday [Erica](http://foxerica.tumblr.com/)!!! 
> 
> Once again I have managed to kind of maneuver my way around the prompt but whatever.

This is probably a bad idea.

Lydia knows she’s probably made worse decisions, but usually she’s just going along with someone else’s bad idea (and giving them hell for it along the way). This time, it’s all her.

It had started simply enough. A month ago she had been finishing up her dissertation, and she’d mentioned in the pack group chat that she needed to take a couple of weeks off from life once she was finished. She felt like something was _missing,_ like the year of working tirelessly on her research had sucked the glow right out of her. Her hair was limp and her skin was dull and she just needed a break. The pack had all agreed, but most of them (with the exception of Scott) are done with school now, and couldn’t necessarily just take time off from their jobs on a whim to take a few weeks’ vacation with Lydia.

And then Derek had chimed in.

Lydia hasn’t seen Derek since high school graduation (which was six years ago by the way), when he’d returned to Beacon Hills to watch them walk across that stage. Those few days had probably been the most time Lydia had ever spent with him, and it surprised her how easily they clicked. But he was still distant, and then he ghosted again.

He barely contributes to the group chat, though sometimes he pops in with a sarcastic comment or carefully constructed encouragement. But Lydia was _not_ expecting him to offer up his home to her. It had snowballed from there, with Scott confirming that Derek’s little beach house down in Mexico was ‘fucking rad’ and Stiles reminding her not to drink the water. It had made sense to agree. She wouldn’t have to pay for a hotel, and she’d have access to a kitchen and a tour guide and a beach. And Derek had been fun for those few days six years ago, so why wouldn’t he be fun now?

But now, as she prepares to get off her plane, she’s suddenly remembering how _not_ fun Derek used to be. Of course, if she was the age she is now and dealing with a bunch of over dramatic, trouble prone teenagers, she probably wouldn’t have been as much fun either. Even so, it’s difficult to reconcile the image she has of Derek Hale in her head with the warm breezes and white beaches of Mexico.

It’s too late to turn back now.

Lydia sighs and slings her carry-on bag over her shoulder, the only thing she brought with her. The purpose of this trip was to take a break, so she’d ditched her laptop and only brought the bare essentials. Its Mexico anyways, it’s not like she’s going to need a ton of clothing. She shuffles off the plane, eyes searching the waiting crowd at arrivals.

Derek stands out without even trying, even in his faded board shorts and ratty t-shirt. It hits her like a freight train, just how beautiful he is. It’s not that she hadn’t noticed, she _had_ , but every time they’ve interacted it’s either been a life or death situation _or_ Lydia’s been fully occupied with something, or someone, else. But she hasn’t been on a real date in three years, and she hasn’t had sex in an embarrassingly long time, and Derek Hale is making her mouth water.

He almost smiles when he sees her, lifting one big hand in an awkward wave. Lydia’s almost positive the woman standing beside her actually gasps at the sight, and she can’t exactly blame her. With a deep breath she marches forward, forcing the surprise off her face when Derek holds his arm out like he wants to hug her. She goes with it, because of course she does, feeling terribly small when the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

“You’re smaller than I remember,” Derek mumbles, his arms warm as they wrap around her. Lydia can’t help but laugh, squeezing him for maybe a second too long before letting go.

“High heels and sand don’t really mix.”

“True.” Derek takes her bag from her and slings it over his shoulder, one big hand pressed against the small of her back as he guides her out into the warm sun. Lydia squints into it, flip flops slapping against the soles of her feet as they walk through the parking lot. She can’t help but smirk at the car they’re walking towards, or truck really, old but pristine with big tires and no doors. It reminds her faintly of Stiles’ old jeep, but it looks to be in better condition.

Derek doesn’t say much as they drive, but Lydia finds she doesn’t mind. He hands her a pair of sunglasses and turns the radio up, singing quietly under his breath in Spanish. Lydia pulls the elastic out of her hair and lets it whip in the wind, tilting her face up and into the sun. She can’t help but sneak sideways glances at Derek, sprawled comfortably behind the wheel with an ease she’s never seen to his shoulders. She hadn’t realized werewolves could get tans, but he is, skin almost glowing and making the paleness of his eyes even more striking. He just seems softer somehow, a bit older maybe, but mostly just _soft_. She wants to hug him again, wants to rest her cheek against his chest a run her fingers through his hair. She _also_ wants to climb him like a tree, but that’s not the feeling that scares her. Tenderness and affection makes her wary, especially when it appears out of nowhere, directed at someone she barely knows.

But she does know Derek she realizes as she follow him into his house. She knows the important things, the _whys_ and the _hows_ that explain who he is as a person. She’s screamed for him, and maybe that is the most important connection of all.

“So uh, it isn’t much,” Derek says, pulling her out of her thoughts. Lydia pushes the sunglasses up on top of her head, blinking as her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The house is cute, more of a beach shack than anything else. It’s all one room, the bed tucked in the corner and the kitchens on the opposite side, bright and clean and _yellow_. There’s books everywhere, stacked on shelves and against the walls and scattered across the kitchen table. There’s one easy chair and a loveseat, but no TV, and it make Lydia smile. It’s so _Derek_ , perfectly matching this softer side she’s beginning to see.

“I love it,” she says honestly, watching as he sets her bag carefully on the bed. Derek’s lips twitch up into the little smile, and she realizes with a start that he has _dimples_. Fuck.

“The bathroom’s there,” Derek points to the sole door. “But the shower’s outside, sorry… and uh, you can take the bed, I sleep in the hammock most nights anyways.” Lydia follows his gaze out through the sliding glass doors, gasping quietly when she sees the white sand and impossibly blue waves.

“I’m going swimming,” she announces abruptly, digging through her bag to find her swimsuit. Derek huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners when she looks up at him. She knows he has to hear her heart skip, but she pretends it’s not happening, slipping into his tiny bathroom and closing the door behind her. Her bikini is brand new, and maybe a bit more modest than she would have gone for as a teenager, but she thinks it looks just fine. Hopefully Derek will think so too. Not that this trip is about _that_ anyways. She’s supposed to be relaxing.

Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she marches out of the bathroom, determined to not even _look_ at Derek. She doesn’t need to even care about his reaction. This is for _her_.

She can feel his eyes on her as she walks through the kitchen, but she’s still surprised when his fingers close around her wrist, reeling her back.

“Don’t forget sunscreen,” he murmurs, handing her what looks to be a brand new bottle. Werewolves probably don’t need it after all.

“Thanks Dad.” Lydia swipes the bottle, ducking her head to hide the smirk she knows is pulling at her lips. Calling Derek Dad is such a poor choice, especially when her brain immediately jumps to calling him _Daddy_ and sends little tendrils of want crawling up her spine. He does have a point though, the last thing she needs is to get a sunburn within her first hour of being in Mexico. She squirts the lotion into her hands, wrinkling her nose at the oily coolness and the smell. Derek has the audacity to chuckle at her, but before she can say anything he’s moving to stand behind her and plucking the bottle from her hands. She knows what’s coming next and she tries to prepare for it, but it’s been so long since she’s been touched that she has to fight her body’s urge to arch into his hands as they spread lotion across her back. He’s thorough too, fingers slipping under the tie across her back, curling around her ribs and pushing down to the small of her back. A soft sigh escapes her lips and she glances at him over her shoulder, not missing the way his ears are definitely turning pink.

“Feels good,” she says, grinning when Derek’s hands immediately still and he quickly steps back, like he hadn’t realized what he was doing. The guilt look on his face makes Lydia feel powerful, sending another thrill up her spine. “Thank you,” she adds, holding his gaze until his cheeks start to turn pink beneath his stubble.

She flounces out the door if only to keep herself from saying anything else, not wanting to push this. Lydia’s never been one to hold back when it comes to getting what she wants, but she knows she needs to be delicate with Derek. As much as he dwarves her, he’s fragile, and she wants to be careful with his heart.

The water’s already lapping at her hips by the time Derek emerges from the house. He’s changed into his own swim shorts, faded blue like they’ve been washed too many times. Her mouth goes dry as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the sand. There’s so much tan skin and dark hair and rippling muscles and she just wants to _touch_.

“Lookin’ good Hale!” She teases, laughing when his cheeks burn briefly red. “Been working out?” She squeezes one of his biceps when he gets close enough, raising her eyebrows when he just grunts and continues to blush. “Don’t act like I’m the-” He scoops her up before she can finish, taking three long steps before tossing her out into the water. Lydia yelps and splashes to the surface, hair plastered to her head and salt water dripping down her nose.

“Don’t even think about it,” Derek warns, his face doing this awful smug thing that makes Lydia’s entire body feel hot. She narrows her eyes as he dives under the water. It’s clear enough that she can see him swimming, and it’s like art, watching his muscles work to propel him through the waves. But then he pops up twenty feet away, lips curling into a smirk and water clinging to his eyelashes. Lydia’s stomach twists and her heart skips.

This is a bad idea.

 

Lydia’s been trying to keep herself under control. She’s always found the seduction part easy, but she doesn’t want to _seduce_ Derek. He’s been seduced for nefarious purposes far too many times to make that any fun. No, she just wants Derek to want her, and she knows that acting like anyone other than herself isn’t going to help anything. But her patience is wearing thin.

They’ve been grocery shopping together and gone on moonlight walks on the beach and Derek taught her how to make perfect margaritas (even if he can’t get drunk). They’ve spent hours on his porch, reading books side by side. Derek’s cooked her breakfast and lunch, has taken her out to dinner at the local taco stand.

They played scrabble okay. And he beat her.

It’s really getting out of hand.

On night three she wakes with a start, her heart pounding in her chest and a scream trying to force its way between her lips. She chokes it back, blinking wildly as the moonlit house comes into focus around her, the remainders of her nightmare fading. Usually when the nightmares come she’d call Mason or Kira, and they’d talk her down from it, prattling on about nonsense until her heart rate evened out and her mind was clear. But this time she has _someone_ , and she figures Derek will understand better than anyone, really.

He’s already awake by the time she steps out onto the porch, eyes almost silver in the moonlight.

“You okay?” He asks, voice rough and scratchy with sleep. Lydia nods out of habit, shuffling closer, his t-shirt that she’d commandeered fluttering around her thighs. Her thundering heart probably woke him up, and she’s almost surprised that he hadn’t burst in with his claws out.

“Bad dream,” she murmurs, the understatement of the century. Derek opens his arms just like he did when she got off the plane, inviting her into his space. Lydia practically falls into him, the hammock swaying wildly as he pulls her between his legs, one hand stroking slowly through her hair. It’s natural then to just _melt_ , arms tucking around his waist and cheek pressing against his chest. Derek’s hands are warm, resting at the small of her back and stroking through her hair, all the way down her spine.

Lydia’s drifting off before she knows it, her eyelids growing heavy and her mind wandering. She swears Derek presses a kiss to her hair, but she can’t be sure, not when her mind is blurring the line between dreams and reality. She still smiles against his chest and snuggles closer, finally succumbing to a peaceful sleep.

They spend the next day just driving around, exploring the town and the land stretching out around it. Lydia feels freer, not caring about the knots in her hair from it blowing in the wind or the fact that she hasn’t even taken her make-up case out of her bag. She even convinces Derek to take a selfie with her in front of a bar called La Casa De Delgado to send to Scott.

They look _good_ together, and Derek’s actually smiling, his arm curled around Lydia like it belongs there. She stares at the photo for a second, almost mesmerized by the healthy glow to her cheeks and the way the sun is glinting off her hair. It takes a second to realize that Derek’s smiling at _her_ , this tender, honest little thing. Her heart stutters in her chest but she doesn’t care, not when she can _see_ the way Derek looks at her.

She can’t stop thinking about it, watching the flex of Derek’s bare shoulders, his tattoo swirling between them, as he washes dishes that night. No one’s ever looked at her quite like that before, like she’s the most precious thing on earth. Sure, she knows what lust looks like and she knows what it’s like to be cared for and loved, but this feels… different.

“You’re staring.” Derek smirks at her over his shoulder. Lydia just grins, because she _is_ staring, and she’s not about to deny it.

“Hard not to,” she shrugs, tracing her tongue across her upper lip and letting her gaze flick across Derek’s body. He flushes but doesn’t look away, his eyes turning dark and warm. Lydia pushes herself out of her chair, holding his gaze as she pads across the floor towards him. He ducks away once she touches him, sliding her fingers slowly across his back, pulling on his shoulder until he takes a half step away from the sink. “Derek.” His name feels heavy on her lips, like a declaration, a prayer, something _more_. Sliding between his body and the sink, she curls her fingers around his jaw, tilting his face until she can see his eyes. There’s brilliant blue sparking around the edges, and it sends warmth coursing through Lydia’s veins, pooling between her thighs. “I want-”

Derek leans down and kisses her before she can even say she wants it, his lips soft against hers like a question. She moans and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself up and into him, kissing him back fiercely. He lifts her up onto the sink, pushing between her knees and smiling against her mouth when she wrap her legs around his waist. Lydia just wants him closer, wants to consume him, wants to memorize the feel of his skin beneath her hands and the taste of his lips. But Derek slows her down, tongue stroking slowly against hers, sucking and biting at her lips, pressing tiny kisses to her chin, her jaw, her throat. Lydia bares her neck to him, shivering when he growls low in his chest, want coiling around the base of her spine. She doesn’t even care that he’s leaving marks, she might even _like_ it, might even want it.

He stops all too soon, breathing heavy, his forehead pressed against hers.

“This isn’t…” He pauses, jaw clenching. “I’m not - this is serious for me, and if it’s not for you, I need to know.” His eyes are closed like he’s afraid of what she’ll see there, but Lydia can feel his heart beating too fast beneath her hands.

“I-” She stops herself, thinking about. She can see herself just _being_ with Derek, holding hands and growing old. She can see Derek as a father, with a tiny baby curled against his chest, a baseball glove on his hand. The scary thing is that she wants it, wants to be with him so _badly_ it almost hurts. “Yeah,” she whispers, sliding her hands up into his hair. “I’m serious.”

Derek opens his eyes and full on smiles, with teeth and dimples and crinkly eyes. Her heart skips but she doesn’t care, pulling him back in for another kiss.

Lydia considers they might be rushing things when ten minutes later she’s flat on her back in the bed, hands fisted in Derek’s hair with his head between her thighs. But they’ve been basically going on dates since she got here, so maybe it isn’t so bad. And it’s not like she wants to _stop_. Her mind goes blissfully blank soon after, chest heaving as Derek presses small kisses to her tummy, her breasts, her collarbone. She can taste herself on his lips and she chases it, licking into his mouth.

“You’re never going to get rid of me now,” she whispers against his lips, falling back into the pillows as his lips drag down her neck. He smiles against her skin, pressing a tiny kiss to the ball of her shoulder.

“I’d never want to.”


	7. One Shot of Jose Cuervo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Stiles  
> Tags: Bartender!Derek, meet in a bar AU, alcohol cw, bad pick up lines  
> Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Allison Argent  
> Rating: Teen & Up (for alcohol and swearing)  
> Prompt: A story about a journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey in this fic is about Stiles journey from sober annoyance to drunken pick-up lines, because I can't ever write for the actual prompt like a normal person.
> 
> I also wrote this for the wonderful and talented [Ren](http://loveactually-rps.tumblr.com/). Happy Birthday dear! I hope you enjoy this ridiculousness!
> 
> Inspired by this AU: the ‘new bartender at my favorite bar is unfairly attractive’ au ([x](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/139539345661/yes-but-also-these).

“This is the actual woooorst,” Stiles groans, dropping his head down onto the high top table he’s sharing with Scott, Lydia and Allison. “I came out to have a good time, and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.” He can’t help but glance towards the bar out of the corner of his eye, unable to look away as Hottie McHotterson throws a towel over his shoulder like this is some kind of porno… or something.

“You say that about everything Stiles.” He lifts his head just enough to watch Lydia take a dainty sip of her whiskey (which ugh, how can she drink that straight _god_ ), looking even more unimpressed than usual, which is quite an accomplishment to be honest. “You’re like our very own little boy who cried wolf.”

“Awoooooo!” Scott tilts his head back and howls, giggling and almost sliding off his stool. Yup. Operation: Get Scotty Too Hotty Chocolaty Wasted is definitely a success. Though right about now, Scott’s Vet School stress is looking a hell of a lot less important than Stiles’ crisis.

“Stiles,” Allison says gently, her cool fingers curling around his arm. Stiles narrows his eyes at her suspiciously. Allison is a tricky one, always coming off as all sweet and gentle, slipping in her rude comments so skillfully he almost thanks her for them half the time. “I don’t really see what the problem is here.”

“Of course you don’t!” Stiles yells, beer sloshing over the rim of his glass and down his wrist. “You’re one of _them_.” He glares towards the bar. “You don’t get to comment on us Average Joes and our problems when you’re one of the _beautiful ones_.”

All three of his friends actually have the nerve to groan, and he’s 95% sure some of the people at the neighboring tables join in too. Which is super rude all around.

“Stiles, we’ve been over this,” Lydia sighs, waving at the waitress for another round of drinks. “I’m not about to explain to you again that you’re much better looking than you think you are. Just shut up about it and go ask the hunk behind the bar out.”

Stiles glances back towards the bar, where the catalyst for all of his problems is standing, awkwardly smiling as a very drunk girl flirts with him. He’s actually pretty intimidating, pushing six feet tall with a dark shock of hair and kind of angry looking eyebrows. He’s like a cross between a lumberjack and an Abercrombie model, and Stiles is caught between wanting to count the colors in his eyes and asking him to flex just to see that vein peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt pop. And then he wants to lick him from head to toe.

“No but listen guys,” Stiles turns his attention back to his friends. Scott of course, is staring at him with glazed eyes, an all too easy smile on his face. Drunk Scott is super understanding and loving, and easily… let’s say convinced of things, so Stiles knows he has a perfect audience. “This is my place right? My hangout? My chill zone, ya dig? And old Al that used to work behind the bar was like, my bro okay? I definitely wasn’t attracted to him, and he definitely loved his wife more than anything else. There was no tension, or yearning, or room for me to completely embarrass myself the way I do around hot people.” Scott nods solemnly, his deep brown eyes wide and very, very unfocused. “But now we’ve got Mr. September over there, and my safe zone has just been obliterated.”

“If you look up melodramatic in the dictionary, there’s a picture of you,” Lydia scoffs, accepting her new drink from the waitress. “Hey Stac, what’s the new bartender’s name?” Stiles forces his gaze away from Scott (who’s still mouthing the word ‘obliterated’ to himself) to watch Stacey, their waitress, lean onto their table and grin conspiratorially.

“Ohhh that’s Derek.” Her blue eyes dart towards the bar with barely disguised glee. “You know I don’t swing that way but good lord, he kind of makes me want too!”

“I here ya,” Scott mumbles sleepily, apparently moving on from the Comprehension Problem stage of Scott McCall Drunkenness to the Drowsy Horndog stage. “I mean, I do swing that way, I swing all th’ ways, but dude, that guy’s hot…. My bro here,” Scott flails his hand towards Stiles, managing to smack his arm and narrowly avoid knocking over his and Allison’s glasses of sangria, “has excellent taste.” Scott ignores Stiles’ withering glare in favor of grinning happily at him, fingers worryingly clammy where they rest on his arm. The rest of Scott’s body is sagging dangerously towards Lydia, and according to Stiles’ calculations, they have about seven minutes before Scott’s face is buried in her cleavage. (Any other person would get their dick cut off for pulling a stunt like that, but Lydia just _lets_ Scott and sits there petting his hair like he isn’t trying to drown himself in her boobs. So unfair).

“Ohhhhhh,” Stacey grins at Stiles, her eyes alight. “I think you’re just his type! You should get his number!”

“Oh no, not you too,” Stiles grumbles, draining his beer. “I can’t - I’m not - this wouldn’t-”

“Round of tequila shots on me!” Stacey sings, dancing away from the table before Stiles can even try to stop her.

 

Ten minutes and four shots of Jose Cuervo later, and Stiles is very, very, _very_ drunk. Not quite as drunk as Scott, who has progressed to drooling on Lydia’s boobs, but his head is definitely spinning, just a bit.

“Imma do it,” he announces, slithering off his stool. The floor tilts beneath him and he scrabbles for balance, coming precariously close to face planting on their table. It’s alright though, he’s totally got this. “Jus’ watch me Ally Kat, I’m gon’ seduce the fuck out of that fucker.”

“Yeah…” Fingers brush through his hair, and Stiles leans into it, like a cat or something. It feels real good. “I have no idea what you just said, but go get ‘em tiger.”

Right.

He’s going to get him.

With a deep breath, Stiles straightens up, blinking wildly as he attempts to focus in on the bar. He can’t remember the distance being quite this long before, or quite this cluttered, but bolstered by his recent intake of tequila, he’s up for the challenge.

“Watch this.”

He takes a step, wobbling slightly as his whole body lurches uncontrollably towards the bar. His hands flail until they find shoulders (whose he doesn’t know), and he steadies himself, eyes trained on the prize. A pair of slightly amused greenish grayish bluish eyes are watching him, but he’s a little more focused on the extremely expressive eyebrows that might actually be _dancing_ above them.

“Eyebrows,” he murmurs under his breath, yelping when someone slaps him on the back and propels him forward. All of a sudden his feet are moving too fast and the gleaming bar is coming up awful quickly. He tries to backtrack, tries to focus all his brain power on making his shoes just _stop_ tripping across the floor. But it’s too late he realizes, looking down at his own hands spread wide across dark colored wood. Everything comes to a screeching halt, the air around him thick like molasses as he slowly lifts his head.

Up this close and as inebriated as he is, Hot Bartender is even more overwhelming than usual. Stiles allows himself to take his time, unintentionally holding his breath as his eyes skate over a trim waist and a broad chest and shoulders that seem to be testing the limits of the black cotton t-shirt they’re encased in. That neck looks like it needs to be bitten, all tan and strong and _god_ that stubble has to be trimmed by angels or some shit, and even that little patch of gray hair is turning Stiles the fuck on. His brain gets stuck, like a skipping record, on the cut of his jaw and the angle of his nose and the sharp slash of his rudely plush lips. He has to force himself the rest of the way, preparing for humiliation as he finally reaches those ridiculous eyes.

“So,” Stiles half collapses against the bar, catching himself on one elbow as if he meant to do it. “You uh, you come here often?” The eyebrows climb towards Hot Bartender’s hairline, and Stiles can’t quite bring himself to stop staring. It’s just… how does he even do that? Stiles tries to make his own brows do the same thing, but he’s distracted when Hot Bartender speaks.

“I work here.” Hot Bartender’s voice is softer than Stiles expected it to be, and he thinks it might even be as soft as his beard looks, if he wasn’t trying to be scary. Which, realistically, Stiles should probably be scared. He’s really, really not.

“True.” Stiles nods, enthusiastically, probably _too_ enthusiastically. “So um, do you believe in love at first sight bro?” Hot Bartender’s eyes narrow, but Stiles is almost positive his lips twitch slightly in the corner. “Or should I walk by again?” He’s rewarded with an almost smile, a flash a straight white teeth before it’s quickly repressed.

“I’m going to make a deal with you,” Hot Bartender says quietly, plucking a cocktail napkin from the stack behind the bar. “If you promise to only use this when you’re completely sober,” he pauses, black sharpie bleeding through the thin paper as he scratches out a name. _Derek_. “ _And_ you promise to go back to your friends and stop being a nuisance, you can call me sometime.”

He shoves the napkin, now complete with a phone number, towards Stiles. Which yes, _maybe_ Stiles should have reacted in any other way besides staring blankly at this _Derek_ guy, but the hottest dude in the entire world just gave him his number. That’s like, unheard of, especially when Stiles is drunk as a skunk.

“I’m gonna take it back if you’re not off my bar in ten seconds,” Derek growls, fingers inching back across the bar towards the napkin. And that, _that_ gets Stiles moving alright. He grabs the napkin and spins around in what he hoped to be a majestic fashion but probably just ended up looking ridiculous. But it’s okay, because there’s faint applause from somewhere to the left and it looks like Scott has moved on from drooling on Lydia to the Queasy Confusion stage of Scott McCall Drunkenness and their table doesn’t look _nearly_  as far away as it was before!

Somewhere between celebrating (hopefully internally) and collapsing against something soft (hopefully Lydia) everything goes black.

 

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the pounding headache or the Justin Timberlake _blasting_ way too close to his ear that brings him from his sleep, but either way it’s not pretty.

“Blergh,” he groans, rolling over and unsurprisingly, half onto Scott.

“What is happening?” Scott mumbles from somewhere beneath the blankets and pillows that they seem to have created a nest in? Stiles isn’t really sure. “Why is there music? Why does my mouth taste like _ass_?” Stiles just whines in response, because he really, _really_ has abso-fucking-lutely no idea what’s happening right now. Just that it’s the actual worst.

“What’s happening is that Allison and I had to cart your drunk asses back here last night,” an all too familiar voice says, ripping the pillow off of Stiles’ head. Lydia makes up for it a bit by shoving a cup of coffee into his hands though, and tossing a blue Gatorade in Scott’s direction.

“Angel on earth,” Stiles whispers, sitting up so he can kind of curl his entire body around his coffee.

“As payback, you are going to call him. Right now. On speaker.” Lydia waves a crumpled napkin in front of Stiles’ face, the name _Derek_ smudged just slightly in annoyingly neat handwriting.

“What? I’m not calling some rando that gave you his number dude! Come on now!” He swats her away halfheartedly, attempting to sip his coffee using only one hand. It’s really a two hand job though, so he gives up on Lydia and focuses on the important things here. Coffee.

“I told you he’d forget,” Allison appears out of nowhere, hair damp from the shower and dressed for her shift at her Dad’s store.

“It’s not some rando dumbass!” Lydia really shoves the napkin at him this time, like she means it. “And don’t call me dude!”

“Hot bartender,” Scott mumbles, curled up in the fetal position as he struggles to get the twisty cap open on the Gatorade. “I ‘member.”

Stiles’ entire body goes still, memories flickering in and out like he can’t quite tune into that channel. But he certainly remembers the hot bartender, and he definitely remembers being annoyed about it, but he only kind of remembers maybe taking some shots of tequila.

“He gave me his number?”

“For some bizarre reason,” Lydia drops down beside him, just the sight of her green smoothie making his stomach churn. “Which is why you’re calling him. _Now_.”

“Normal people text.”

“Do it.”

“It’s too early in the morning.”

“It’s noon!”

“Ughhhh fine!” Stiles grabs for his phone and plugs in the number, ignoring the way every too fast beat of his heart sends pain pulsing through his forehead. He’s never, ever drinking again. Ever.

It rings, once, twice, three times, and Stiles thinks he might be getting away with this with just a hangover and enough embarrassment to have to change the bar he frequents every weekend.

“Hello?”

Oh god. What does he even say? This is the worst idea ever.

“Hi um,” he swallows hard, rubbing his fingers at his temple. “I’m uh, this is Stiles? From the bar last night?”

“So you sobered up then?” Derek says, his voice almost soft enough to be _fond_. Even Scott is perking up, peering at Stiles over the edge of one of Allison’s blankets.

“Unfortunately,” Stiles mumbles, trying to ignore the flush he can feel crawling up his neck. “I uh, to be honest, I don’t exactly remember last night, and I’m sorry if I said anything offensive or like-”

“You asked me if I come here often,” Derek interrupts, sending Lydia and Allison into a wave of stifled giggles. “And then you asked me if I believe in love at first sight, or if you need to walk by again.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles sighs and takes a long sip of coffee. “And yet you still gave me your number.” There’s a quiet huff of what could be laughter on the other end, and just like that, Stiles’ headache seems to disappear.

“It was kind of charming,” Derek mumbles, like maybe he’s shy. “And the most creative one yet.” Stiles grins down at the phone in his hand, elation rising in his chest like carbonation.

“So uh, wanna grab a drink sometime? I know this great bar, the bartender’s smokin’ hot.”

Derek honest to god laughs that time, and Stiles kind of feels like he found one of those secret passages in Super Mario Brothers or something. It’s like he’s got the cheat code to life in the sound of Derek’s laugh.

Amazingly, Derek says yes, even though they do end up going to the movies first. Even more amazingly, when Stiles goes to kiss Derek at the end of the night, Derek kisses him first, like he _wants_ it, like he’s maybe been thinking about it just as much as Stiles has. The most amazing thing though, is that Derek still laughs at Stiles’ dumb pickup lines. Every single time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear each fic I write gets more and more ridiculous every time!  
> Feel free to come hang with me on [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com) where I spend most of my time wailing about Tyler Hoechlin!


	8. Paid Research Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Stiles  
> Tags: college AU, fake dating (kinda), challenges/bets, roommates, background Scott/Lydia  
> Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall  
> Rating: Teen & Up (for alcohol and swearing)  
> Prompt: A story set during a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very belated birthday present for [Emmi](http://emmikinzz.tumblr.com/) and [Sabrina](http://jacksbittle.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Per usual - this is barely following the prompt. Yay me!
> 
> Inspired by [ tumble post](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/140391860361/lesbianrey-looks-like-the-perfect-opportunity).

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Stiles thinks to himself as he takes in the war zone that is his apartment. There’s dirty dishes piled in the sink and empty beer cans scattered across the floor, and most importantly, a banner drawn in what appears to be MAC Brooke Candy Mind Control lipstick that reads “ **MCMARTIN RULES, HALINSKI DROOLS** ” slipping sideways down the living room wall. Not to mention the throbbing pain in his head that means a hangover and the way his knees ache, which means he and Scott probably drank too much tequila and tried to leap off the balcony again. Ominously, a piece of papers flutters off the kitchen table and lands square on Stiles’ face (he realizes belatedly that he’s lying on the kitchen floor, which is super questionable). The words ‘Paid Research Opportunity’ come into focus and Stiles groans, crumpling it in his fist. Fuck Beacon Hills University and fuck research studies and fuck Lydia Martin for being a competitive jerk and especially fuck Derek Hale for being so fucking good at _pretending_ to be his boyfriend.

“Uggggh.”

Stiles turns his head in the direction of the muffled groaning, eyes narrowing when he finds Scott practically melting off the couch, unsurprisingly dressed in just a pair of boxers.

“Hey fuck you McCall,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and dehydration.

“Not fair,” Scott mumbles into the couch cushion. “This was all your idea anyways.”

“No it was-” Stiles cuts himself off, because annoyingly, Scott is very, very right.

* * *

 

 

**_Two Days Earlier_ **

 

“Yoooooooo!” Stiles bursts into the apartment, single piece of paper clenched in his fist. “Who wants to be my fake significant other?” He’s met by three blank stares with various degrees of disgust. Which… isn’t really that surprising, considering the fact that his roommates have seen him demolish an entire loaf of garlic bread during his thirteenth hour of marathoning The X-Files. He might have been naked. It’s one of his proudest moments. “You’ll get fifty bucks out of the deal!” He waves the paper in what he hopes is an enticing manner, and true to form, Scott’s eyes follow it.

“No.” Lydia does that thing where she raises one eyebrow and purses her lips like she’s a grade school teacher or something (which, she kind of is, considering she lives with three college boys). “I would need like ten times that much to be convinced to date you.” She pulls a text book up in front of her face before Stiles can even formulate a response, curled up neatly in the corner of the couch.

“That’s cold babe,” Stiles whines, dropping down to his knees for emphasis. His father once said he had a propensity for dramatics, and Stiles is slowly starting to believe him.

“I’m not your babe,” Lydia snaps back, not even glancing at him over her book.

 Moving on, Stiles turns his attention to Scott, his best friend, brother from another mother, partner in crime.

“Come on Scotty,” he begs, crawling towards the kitchen table on his knees. “Think of how much booze we could buy with a hundred bucks?”

“I thought it was fifty,” Derek grumbles (always grumbling that one), ripping the paper from Stiles hands before sitting down at the table with Scott. After sending Stiles what is probably supposed to be a placating look (really it’s just kind of annoying), Scott leans against Derek and starts to read the flier as well. Scott’s brows seem to be lowering at the same rate that Derek’s are rising, and at any other time, Stiles would _probably_ be filming it or something. But he really, _really_ could use the money.

“Stiles, this is supposed to be about long term relationships,” Scott says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. “We’d mess up their data.”

“Aw come on dude,” Stiles crawls forward until he can rest his chin on the kitchen table. “We’ve all known each other since freshman year – I’ve known Scott since kindergarten - and we’ve lived together for a year and a half! That’s just as good as dating!”

“I don’t think-”

“I’ll do it,” Derek cuts Scott off, though he doesn’t really look all that happy about volunteering. Stiles is pretty sure his jaw is on the floor or something because generally, Derek barely tolerates him. Sure, they’re friends, but they’re the kind of friends that push each other’s buttons constantly and spending more time arguing than getting alone. He thought he’d have more luck with _Lydia_ than he would with Derek.

There’s also Stiles’ big, giant, no good crush.

But you know, Stiles is working on pretending it doesn’t exist.

Which is going to be awful difficult if they’re going to pretend to be dating.

“Really?” He asks, trying (and mostly failing) to ignore the terribly unsubtle waggling of Scott’s eyebrows. Derek shrugs, his mouth lifting into one of those infuriating smirks.

“Yeah well, I’m pretty sure you owe me like twice this amount of money,” his smirk widens when he pauses. “And I would make a way better fake partner than these two assholes.”

Stiles isn’t sure what’s more funny, the ominous thud of Lydia’s book hitting the floor or the affronted squawk that Scott let’s out. He can’t help but laugh, and it only makes things worse, the clear betrayal written across Scott’s face and the murderous glint to Lydia’s eyes when she stomps over to the table and slams down her book.

“Oh it’s on Hale,” she hisses, meeting Derek glare for glare. “Me and McCall are gonna kick your asses.”

“Oh are you kidding me?” Stiles groans. That’s not even a fair competition. Scott is unapologetically romantic, and Lydia generally acts more like a boss than a girlfriend, they’d be a perfect pair. There’s no way he and Derek would look anything more than dysfunctional next to them. He’s expecting Derek to cower like he usually does under Lydia’s scrutiny, but instead he seems to be challenging her, chest puffing up and everything. It’s actually kind of turning him on to be honest, but the reality of the forthcoming disaster is for once overshadowing his desire to climb Derek like a fucking tree.

“Me and my high school girlfriend were voted class couple,” Derek offers, nose in the air. “I’m Grade A boyfriend material.”

Stiles tears his gaze away from Derek to sneak a peek at Scott, who is now wearing an expression of utter bemusement. Unfortunately, Stiles can relate.

“Me and Stilinski will be eight hundred times more convincing than you and McCall,” Derek continues, crossing his arms. “I know the researchers will believe us.” Lydia just stares at him for a second, knuckles turning white as she leans on the table. Finally she nods, red hair swinging gently as she extends her hand.

“Challenge accepted.”

 

* * *

 

**_Current Day_ **

  

“Dude,” Stiles groans and pushes himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. The smell of roses is heavy on the air, and what should be pleasant smell is kind of making him want to smash things. Probably the dozens of roses in question, using the giant teddy bear with his name embroidered on it as a weapon.

“Stiles,” Scott whines into the couch. “I think I kissed Lydia last night.” Stiles opens his mouth to congratulate him, or swear, or _something_ , but then he remembers. He remembers hot hands on his thighs and stubble scraping against his cheeks, a slick tongue and soft lips and teeth biting hickeys against his throat.

“Oh god.” He slumps back down onto the floor, letting his throbbing head press against the cool tile. “What are we gon’ do?” Scott groans again, so Stiles decides that if he can’t beat him he might as well join him, and begins the long journey across the floor and into the living room. By the time he gets there, his hands have managed to pick up any and all of the dirt littering the floor, and he’s pretty sure the knees of his sweatpants have taken care of the rest. He crawls up onto the couch with Scott, wrapping around him like an octopus, the way they have since the first time Scott got the flu when they were five. In reality it’s actually kind of gross, Scott’s skin is sweaty and he smells like stale beer, but it’s still vaguely comforting.

“I can smell your breath from here,” Scott grumbles into the pillow.

“It’s probably your own blowing back in your face dude,” Stiles snaps, moaning when the pain in his forehead throbs. “Bro, I kissed Derek last night.” He adds, pressing his face into Scott’s stomach. “And it was so good. I can’t believe…” He trails off with another whimper of pain. This is a disaster. He’s read enough Star Wars AU Fanfic to know better than to do the fake-dating thing with somebody he actually likes. And it didn’t helped that Derek has spent the last two days trying to one up Lydia, bringing him flowers and stuffed animals and cooking him a fancy dinner. Which obviously had turned into an alcohol fueled competition last night. He’s not sure who’s idea the kissing contest was (hopefully not his, _God_ that would be embarrassing), but he knows he’s never going to forget the way Derek kissed him, like he needed it, like he was drowning. But of course it was all a game to Derek. He was just trying to beat Lydia, and Stiles was supposed to be playing along, not thoroughly enjoying it (and committing every stroke of his tongue and press of his hands to memory).

“I think I’m dying,” Scott whines, loudly this time, his face finally turned away from the pillow as he gasps for fresh air.

“No you’re not.”

Both Stiles and Scott flinch at the sound of a third voice. Stiles turns his head just enough to get a glimpse of a floral skirt and high heels. “We brought you two jackasses breakfast,” she adds, yanking the blankets away from them as she goes.

“Who you calling a jackass, jackass?” Stiles grumbles, tightening his hold on Scott’s warm body. “This is _your_ fault.”

“No it’s definitely yours.” The sound of Derek’s voice has him cringing, stomach suddenly going queasy.

“Mrrppgggg,” Stiles mumbles into Scott’s stomach, refusing to make eye contact with _anyone_. He knows that the second he actually _sees_ Derek, all he’s going to be able to think about is kissing him, straddling his thighs on this very couch and tangling his fingers in his hair.

“Derek and I discussed the terms of our truce this morning,” Lydia continues, cold, talon like fingers wrapping around Stiles’ arm and _yanking_. “We agreed that this competition was mutually beneficial-” She drops Stiles’ arm and starts in on Scott. “-and that instead of skewing the researchers data - Derek, a little fucking help here - we should not participate in the research study.”

“But the mon- hey!” Stiles yelps as strong hands curl around his ribs and _lift_ him into the air like a rag doll or something. He slams his eyes shut, refusing to look at the owner of said hands and hoping that _maybe_ everyone will believe it’s because of light sensitivity, not shame.

“You’re really thinking about money for tequila right now?” Just the sound of the word makes him feel queasy, and he collapses onto Derek’s shoulder, allowing himself to be carried over to the kitchen table. 

He finally opens his eyes when a cup is pushed into his hands, the scent of hazelnut coffee finally reaching his nose.

“Oh my god,” he groans, taking a reverent sip. A sausage, egg and cheese on an everything bagel appears in front of him, and suddenly, he _knows_. Blinking, he turns his head until he finds Derek, flush high on his cheeks and ears burning bright red. “ _Dude_ ,” he sighs, watching the way Derek’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up again, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Marry me. I swear to god, let’s just get married.”

It takes a second - the longest second of Stiles’ life, really - for Derek to get it, his mouth curving into one of those rare smiles that never fail to make Stiles’ chest feel too tight.

“Maybe we should date first,” Derek offers quietly, finally sliding into the chair beside Stiles. Their fingers brush, hesitant, and Stiles goes for it, curling his pinky (also the least clammy finger at the moment, which is important) around Derek’s slightly thicker one. Stiles is pretty sure there should be little birds singing around his head or something, what with Derek’s Disney princess fucking eyes and the way his heart is beating too hard in his chest. He leans in slightly, lips parting as Derek’s tongue flicks out along his bottom lip. It’s going to happen. Derek’s going to kiss him because he wants to, because he likes him, not because of some challenge.

“ _Oh god_ don’t kiss him.”

Stiles snaps his head around to glare at Scott, who is looking dangerously green around the gills. “Don’t do it Der, his breath smells like death and if I think about it too much I might puke.”

“Please don’t puke,” Lydia soothes, combing her fingers through Scott’s hair in a frankly disgusting show of affection.

“Cock block man!” Stiles whines, taking another long sip of coffee. “Not cool dude.”

But then Derek presses his lips to his cheek, this tiny little innocent thing, so full of promise that Stiles can’t help the blush rising on his cheeks. He turns to grin a Derek, reaching out to poke at the dimple cutting into his cheek.

“You better be ready for The Stiles.”

“Oh god,” Scott groans, head thumping against the table with the background noise of Lydia pretending to retch.

“The Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and looks pointedly at his crotch, grinning when the flush on Derek’s cheeks deepens. “I’ve even got glow in the dark condoms.”

Scott lets out a distressed whine, and Stiles can’t help but grin.

Bringing home that flier was the best idea he’s ever had.


	9. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Allison/Lydia  
> Tags: character death (canonical), grief, alcohol mention  
> Characters: Lydia Martin, Allison Argent  
> Rating: explicit  
> Prompt: A creepy story (this is actually just sad and not really creepy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as I mentioned above, this isn't creepy - just sad, and it deals heavily with death and remembering, so I thought it kind of fit.

The smell of summer rain, steam rising from the earth.

A lone dove calling as the sun sinks behind the trees.

The whisper of the wind, whistling, like an arrow flying towards its home.

 

It doesn’t take much, to make Lydia think of her. Sometimes it’s just a pair of warm brown eyes, whether they belong to Scott or Stiles or a stranger on the street. Sometimes it’s a warm laugh, ringing across a crowded coffee shop. She imagines she sees her sometimes, a flash of dark bouncy curls, a glimpse of tall boots and a floral skirt. The smell of lavender, the taste of chocolate, the slide of silk against her skin. The breeze seems to carry her name, the rain seems to taste like her tears.

 

It seems like decades have passed since she tasted the column of her throat, the gentle swell of her breasts. Lydia will never forget the sounds she used to make, those little sighs and soft moans, the tightening of her fingers in her hair. Being with her was a contradiction. She made Lydia _burn_ from the inside out, could make her hands shake and her legs tremble. But she also felt like coming home, like falling into bed after a long day, like slipping into a bubble bath with a glass of wine.

 

No house has felt like home since.

 

In the dead of night, when the wind rattles at the window panes, Lydia swears she feels her there. A warm arm curled around her waist, a soft body pressed against her back, gentle breaths puffing against the back of her neck. She never turns to look, never checks to see if it’s real, too afraid to shatter the illusion, too selfish to give these stolen moments back to the night.

Instead she just imagines it, imagines rolling over to find a baby pink tank top and flannel pajama shorts, messy hair and soft pink lips. She touches her face, traces the curve of her cheek and the angle of her jaw, pulls her in for a soft kiss. It starts off gentle, it always does, their lips sticking slightly as they pull apart. It doesn’t take long though, for the kisses to turn wet, sloppy and heated, filled with need and desire. Her imagination runs with it, imagines the way a strong thigh would slip between her own, imagines soft fingers pushing at the straps of her night gown.

Soft hands slipping across her skin, a hot mouth pressing kisses to her neck, licking at her nipples until they peak, dipping into her belly button. From there Lydia never knows if it’s memory or fantasy, the pressure of sure hands on her hips, the intensity of dark eyes looking up her body, almost black in the darkness. If it were real she would slip her fingers into that soft hair, would try to hold her gaze for as long as she could, legs trembling and back arching.

No boy could ever make her feel like this, his hands too rough and his touch too hard. But not her, no, _she_ could make Lydia feel so good, too good maybe, with her hot mouth and clever tongue and fingers curling just right.

She would kiss her way back up Lydia’s body after, slick smeared across her lips and chin and a proud smirk on her face. Lydia would always return the favor, would try to make her come just from teasing her nipples, would breathe in the purest scent of her, fuck her with her tongue and fingers until she was a sobbing, shaking mess. She always looked so beautiful like this, with a flush high on her cheeks and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, lips bitten and red. Lydia would drag it out for as long as she could, just to watch her beg, just to make it the best she possibly could.

But it was the after she liked the best, the way they’d wrap themselves around each other, bodies bare and pliant and touching in every way possible. It was waking up the next morning with dark hair tickling her arms, with her hand half asleep and the chance to see the way rosy cheeks and dimples glow in the rising sun.

She imagines that too when she wakes in the morning, though now the bed is always too cold and the sun never seems to be as warm as it once was. Every morning the steam in the shower reminds her of the one shower they shared, the tug of her eyeliner across her lids reminds her of all the parties they planned to go to together. The drive to school is filled with memories, of laughter and smiles, of bows and arrows and guns and teeth.

Every second of every day there’s something, waiting to tear her heart to pieces.

So Lydia rubs her fingers across the tiny arrows tattooed on the inside of her wrist…

 

… and she remembers.


	10. Feels Like Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Lydia/Scott  
> Tags: future fic, anxiety (briefly), coming home  
> Characters: Lydia Martin, Scott McCall (breif mention of: Derek, Kira, Lydia and Stiles  
> Rating: Gen  
> Prompt: A story featuring a countdown.

**10**

 

Lydia’s heart pounds in her chest and he fingers tremble as they push open the car door. It’s alright, she can do this. It’s been ten years since she’s filled her lungs with Beacon Hills’ air, ten years since she’s seen this town, the town that both ruined and saved her, with her own two eyes. Ten years since she’s set foot on this hallowed ground.

 

**9**

 

Her heels click softly on the asphalt, holding her up even as her legs wobble. She can do this, she knows she can. How hard can it be, to come home, to come back? It’s only been nine years since she stopped wanting to return home, since she stopped missing it. But it had hit her like a bucket of ice water as she was sitting at her desk at work, the southern California sun streaming through her office windows. A shiver had run down her back, and she knew. It was time.

 

**8**

 

The car door sounds too loud when it slams shut behind her, the little blue and white BMW logo glinting on the hood. They have to know she’s here now. It’s been eight years since she’s seen any of the pack in the flesh. It’s been eight years since she’s seen warm brown eyes and smooth tan skin and a crooked jaw. Hardly a day goes by without thinking about him though, thinking about that night eight years ago in a beach house on the coast.

 

**7**

 

She swallows hard and lifts her chin. She can do this. Her first step feels momentous, rounding the back of her car. The front porch looks the same, though freshly painted, the front door a soft green. It feels like home, it feels like the place she’s been subconsciously searching for over the last seven years. Time doesn’t feel real anymore, it’s like she’s been drifting through life, with just her work and the casual friends she’s made along the way.

 

**6**

 

Each footstep brings her closer, increases her pulse by a beat. A child laughs, and suddenly the world comes screeching to a halt. What if… She hadn’t considered that, hadn’t considered that maybe he’d moved on, that maybe he didn’t think about those six days of sun and sand and laughter the way she did. He would deserve it of course. Scott deserves everything.

 

**5**

 

There’s toys scattered across the front lawn, a pink Barbie Jeep tipped on its side, a half deflated kickball and five Tonka trucks. Lydia considers turning around, considers walking away and pretending this never happened. But she can’t, not when she knows they can hear her heart beating, can probably smell her indecision and anxiety on the summer breeze. She needs to do this for her, needs to let herself have this, have _something_. She needs to know.

 

**4**

 

She feels vaguely over dressed as her heels click against the walkway stones, her pencil skirt and nylons suddenly too much. It’s been four years since she cleaned out her closets and donated all the floral print, all the miniskirts and high waisted shorts and low cut blouses. Sensible slacks and knee length skirts took their place, interspersed with brightly colored but professional blouses. Her sixteen year old self would turn up her nose, but Lydia is a grown-up now. She wonders if it was worth it.

 

**3**

 

There’s three steps up onto the front porch and her legs tremble with each one. _I can do this_ , _I can do this_ , she repeats to herself, over and over until she starts to believe it. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, feeling naked with her hair pulled back into a sleek bun, tamed and grown-up. There’s footsteps inside, boots on hardwood, and she knows it’s him, knows it can’t be anyone else. Her hands are sweating and she doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to take back control.

 

**2**

 

The door swings open and the breath whooshes from Lydia’s chest. She gets a glimpse of familiar warm eyes before she’s wrapped up in two strong arms, squeezing her tight. Scott smells like home, like old spice and laundry detergent and warm summer nights. He feels like something more, something warm and precious and invaluable. He feels like love.

 

**1**

 

“Lydia.”

Her name sounds like a prayer on his lips, and it brings an unbidden smile to her face, her cheeks lifting in a way they haven’t in ages. He pulls back just enough so that their eyes meet, and in that one second of charged silence she _knows_. This man standing in front of her is the one. The one she’s been waiting for, and looking for, and dreaming about. She doesn’t know how long she’s loved him, years probably, from the first time he held her hand.

 

**0**

 

“Scott.”

He kisses her before she can say anything else, hands big and warm as they cradle her face and curl around the back of her neck. It’s different now than that night on the beach, different than that time in coach’s office. Scott kisses like he means it, like he’s pouring his heart and soul into it and tracing his declarations across her lips with his tongue. Lydia parts her lips and kisses him back, drops her purse onto the floor and wraps her arms around his neck. He slows her down too soon, pressing tiny kisses to her lips, her nose, her cheeks. She can hear familiar voice in the background, Derek and Kira and Malia and Stiles. With a sigh she tucks her face into Scott’s neck, smiling when he pulls her tight against him, until there’s zero space between them, warm hands sweeping up and down your spine.

“It’s good to be home.”


	11. Me, Her and The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Kira  
> Tags: future fic, getting together, mentions of fishing, past kira/malia, past kira/scott, past kira/malia/scott/stiles  
> Characters: Kira Yukimura, Derek Hale, pack mentions  
> Rating: Gen  
> Prompt: A story set during a full moon

The full moon doesn’t affect Kira the same way it does the wolves, or Malia, or even Lydia, who just seems more like the moon of their group sometimes than anyone else. Kira sometimes goes with the wolves when they run on the full moon, letting her eyes glow and electricity spark through her veins. Usually though she spends a quiet night in, watching superhero movies with Stiles or having game night with her parents.

Tonight is different. She feels restless, the moon glowing eerily as it hangs over the tree line. It’s her parents’ anniversary tonight, and though they offered to do game night, she insisted they have a romantic dinner to themselves. Twenty eight years of marriage is a pretty big deal after all. Stiles is still at school, with one more exam left before he’s finished his junior year. Kira’s pretty sure his frat is having a party tomorrow night anyways, so she isn’t expecting him to be home until next week. Lydia is in France visiting Isaac, and Mason has emissary training with Deaton tonight. The rest of the pack is probably out in the woods, half shifted and howling at the moon.

Kira doesn’t generally get lonely, too used to changing schools and being painfully awkward for most of her childhood. She drives around town for a little bit, stopping at a gas station for snacks before finally deciding on crashing at Derek’s loft.

Derek’s her favorite.

Lydia always gives her a strange look when she says that, but Kira has only ever been intrigued by the older werewolf. When they first met he was so kind to her, and the way he so obviously cared about Scott and Stiles endeared him to her immediately. He came back to Beacon Hills after they all started college, and his new loft apartment (much nicer than the old one) turned into the pack hangout whenever they were home from school. She’s not sure when her feelings about Derek went from friendly warmth to this insistent want, this curiosity to know what the coarse hair on his chest would feel like beneath her hands, to know the taste of his skin. She’s been single for a while now, though she and Malia sometimes hook up when they’re bored, and the pair of them have been known to join Scott and Stiles every once in a while. For the most part the pack is very open when it comes to sex, with the exception of Derek. He’s never dated within the pack, tends to keep his dating and sex life private. It adds to the mystery, spurs Kira’s curiosity to new lengths.

That’s not why she’s going to his loft now though. She just feels comfortable there, knows she can crash on the couch and will wake up covered with a blanket in the morning, with Derek reading quietly at the kitchen table. She has her own profile on his Netflix account, and he keeps her favorite brand of tea stocked in the cupboard over the coffee maker. She feels almost as much at home at Derek’s as she still does at Scott’s house, like being there with the soft natural light and the understated decor and the fully stocked fridge more than she likes being in her dorm at school. _Derek_ is just an added bonus, with his cuddly sweaters and soft smiles and the way he rolls his eyes more dramatically than any person really should.

Kira lets herself in to the loft with one of the several keys hanging on her key ring, hanging them on the little rack beside the door out of habit. She cocks her head and listens, her senses not as strong as the wolves’ but still better than a human’s. There’s no one here, just the faint thump of Derek’s cat Harriet’s heart in the depths of the apartment. Kira kicks off her shoes and pads down the hall to the living room, tossing her bag of snacks on the coffee table and flopping onto the couch with the remote. She gets caught up in a River Monsters marathon in minutes, mindlessly eating gummy worm after gummy worm.

It’s not until a key turns in the lock that she realizes hours have passed, and she’s seen probably more than enough giant stingrays and catfish and piranhas for one person. Not that she’s ready to _stop_ watching or anything.

“Kir?”

She straightens up, brushing the sugar that gathered on her chest to the floor at the sound of Derek’s voice.

“In here,” she calls back, licking at her lips and teeth to try to rid herself of the sticky sugar residue. Pigging out on the guy she has a crush on’s couch is probably not the best plan she’s ever had, but it’s not like Derek hasn’t seen her having a pizza eating contest with Stiles or covered in mud, three days without a shower, either.

“Hey.” Derek shuffles into the living room, hair sticking up and pieces of leaves scattered throughout. He looks absolutely adorable, but it only gets worse when he collapses across the couch, rubbing his cheek against Kira’s thigh as he pulls a blanket over himself.

“You okay?” She asks, brushing her fingers absently through his hair, turning the TV down with her other hand.

“Yeah,” Derek hums against her leg, squirming up the couch until his arms are wrapped around her waist and his face is pressed against her stomach. “You know how I get after the full shift.”

It is true, Derek’s always cuddly after wolf form, almost desperate for touch, though generally Kira isn’t on the receiving end of it. But she’s usually not waiting for him in his apartment on a full moon, either.

“You act like an actual puppy, you mean?” Kira teases, though her giggles dry up with Derek growls and nips at her stomach, teeth catching at her skin through her thin t-shirt. It’s not like Derek could _know_ she has a _thing_ for biting, that Scott used to cover her in bite marks, hidden between her thighs and across her stomach. She manages to hold back the shudder that wants to ripple through her, manages to not arch against Derek’s mouth, manages not to let out a sigh and grip his hair. But it’s near impossible to stop her body from reacting, and she’s sure Derek will be able to sense it soon if she doesn't get herself under control.

“I can’t believe you actually watch this show,” Derek murmurs after a few minutes, his fingers pressing softly against Kira’s back. “We deal with supernatural monsters every day, why would you wanna see the natural ones?”

“Leave me alone,” Kira huffs, resuming carding her fingers through his hair, ridding it of random pieces of grass and leaves. Derek falls silent, his breathing evening out and his hold on Kira loosening. She tries to pay attention to the TV, tries not to think about how close Derek is, how he’s literally wrapped himself around her, how she can feel his warm breath on her tummy where her t-shirt is riding up. To Derek this is probably just normal pack behavior, and she doesn’t want to take advantage of him, doesn’t want to assign meaning to actions he’s making unintentionally. She redoubles her efforts to focus on the fish being reeled in on the television, stilling her hands and trying to place them somewhere innocent. It’s kind of difficult, with a giant man kind of sprawled across her lap, but she ends up with one on the arm of the couch and the other resting lightly between his shoulder blades.

“Why’d you stop?” Derek mumbles sleepily, shifting and lifting his head up to look at her. “It felt good.”

“Sorry.” Kira immediately returns her fingers to his hair, cheeks flushing when he continues staring up at her, pale eyes looking gray in the TV light. “What?”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Derek’s eyes crinkle in the corners like they do just before he smiles, lips parting just enough to reveal a flash of those adorable front teeth. “I like coming home to you.”

Kira’s heart thumps hard in her chest, and there’s no way Derek could even pretend he didn’t hear it. She could even hear it for god’s sake. She knows it doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything, in the romantic sense anyways. Platonic love is just as strong and just as important (maybe even more so) than romantic feelings. Kira just can’t help that she has them. She smiles weakly at Derek, embarrassment fading into confusion as he continues to smile up at her.

There’s an attempt at a sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue when she feels one hand slide up her back, thick fingers sliding through her hair. She swallows hard, blinking as Derek sits up, his palm cradling the back of her head.

“Um.” Kira swallows again, breath leaving her in a rush when Derek’s nose brushes against hers. She kisses him without really thinking, their lips just barely brushing. Derek sighs against her mouth before pulling her closer and kissing her in earnest. He tastes wild, and it lights something inside of her, burning low at the base of her spine. She moans and leans into him, sliding her hands across his chest and around his broad shoulders. He feels good beneath her fingers, warm and strong and capable. Derek nips at her bottom lip before pulling back, pushing her hair out of her face with gentle fingers.

“I’m _really_ glad you’re here.” He smiles again, kissing the tip of her nose before settling back down across her lap.

Kira sits there for a moment in stunned silence, her chest rising and falling drastically. After a moment she feels herself start to smile, a big goofy thing that makes her glad that Derek’s turned his attention back to the TV.

If full moons are always going to end up like this, she’s going to start looking forward to them a lot more.


	12. Untamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Allison/Kira  
> Tags: farm au, horse back riding, barrel racing  
> Characters: Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent, Scott McCall  
> Rating: Gen  
> Prompt: A story about a contest or competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to Lonnie for the prompt!!!
> 
> "BETH BETH PLEASE WRITE ME COMPETITIVE ALLIRA where they run track or swim or some kind of solo sport and are each trying to best each others' personal records lord PL eA s E"
> 
> I WILL TURN EVERYTHING INTO A FARM AU SORRY NOT SORRY
> 
> PS - i know a bit about riding horses but not that much about barrel racing so if I said anything wrong I'm very sorry.

When Kira started kindergarten, her dad began insisting that she play sports. At first, Kira had agreed easily, eager to be around other kids and stretch her legs and just _play_. She hadn’t been at her first softball practice for five minutes, glove almost falling off her hand, when she got hit in the face with a ball. There had been tears, obviously, and Kira begged her dad to take her home. Softball _hurt_ , it wasn’t soft at all, and she didn’t want to be there. Of course her Dad had to teach her a lesson about not quitting, about sticking with something and trying to get better. So she stuck with it for the rest of the summer, spending most of her time with a helmet on so she wouldn’t get hit again.

She decided softball wasn’t for her, and so soccer was the next one she tried. It was alright, but the running back and forth seemed kind of pointless, the little boys on her team were kind of mean, and for some reason everyone yelled (and laughed) at her when she decided to just take a quick break on her mom’s picnic blanket in the middle of the game. Mom had snacks and she was _hungry_ okay? Chasing the ball around could wait.

Basketball was just a _disaster_ , and cheerleading was nixed by her mother. The girls in her gymnastics class were mean to her, and ballet didn’t go much better, but on a last ditch attempt to find _something_ , her Dad signed her up for riding lessons.

Kira can still remember the first time she felt a pony’s lips nibble at her palm, the soft strength of his neck beneath her little hand and the comforting smell of clean shavings and hay. She was a natural from the beginning, progressing easily off the lead line and learning how to post on a trot. Soon she was tacking up herself and taking the bus to the farm after school three days a week. By her twelfth birthday she had progressed to jumping and started learning dressage routines, and by the summer between her junior and senior years of high school she had mastered western as well and caught the barrel racing bug.

Kira’s good at it. She loves the way her hair flies out behind her on the turns, the raw power of her [quarter horse, Katana,](http://i.imgur.com/dOwaknX.jpg) and she whips through the barrels, the adrenaline that pumps through her veins with every slide through the dirt. Winning isn’t all that bad either. There’s belt buckles covering the inside of her closet door and embroidered jackets and director’s chairs scattered throughout the house. Kira’s never been cocky, and she never wants to be, but she’s fully aware of the fact that she and Katana are one of the best barrel racing teams in this part of California. And it’s just _nice_ , to be able to see the pride on her mother’s face after a race, and to overhear her dad bragging to her uncle over the phone about her.

 

Two weeks before the first day of senior year, it all comes crashing down.

 

“Whose horse is that?”

 

Kira glances over her shoulder at the [jet black horse](http://i.imgur.com/LAMPLzT.jpg) pacing along the fence line of the far paddock. The horse turns and whinnies, the white blaze on his nose softening the almost intimidating vibe he gives off. Kira shrugs at Scott and trades her curry comb for a stiff brush, flicking the dirt and hay off of Katana’s coat.

“Stiles said there’s a new girl this year at school,” Scott continues, his fingers nimble as they continue to braid [his horse Sundae’s mane](http://i.imgur.com/8AGn9Au.jpg). “Maybe it’s her’s?”

Kira hums and narrows her eyes at the strange horse. He’s obviously wound tight and full of energy, and though some of it might be from moving, the rest probably works itself out into raw speed. Katana could probably beat him though, with her sharp cuts and ability to stop on a dime.

“Where is Stiles getting this information anyway?” She trades the brush in for a hoof pick, turning and lifting one of Katana’s hooves with one hand.

“I have no idea,” Scott laughs and ties off the end of Sundae’s braid. “He probably broke into the administration office or something.”

“Oh god.” Kira laughs as she moves on to the next hoof, using quick flicks of her wrist to clear out the packed manure and rocks.

Scott’s already got Sundae tacked up by the time she finishes, so she hurries to catch up, slinging the saddle and blanket over Katana’s back and tightening the girth with practiced ease. Slipping on the bridle is always a sort of challenge, Katana wants to fight the bit every time, but eventually she gets it on.

They head out on an easy trail ride, the late August sun too hot to really push the horses. And well, they’re just kind of hanging out anyways, they don’t take lessons anymore, instead they teach them. Kira met Scott when her family moved to Beacon Hills six years ago. He and his mom lived next door to the farm, and Deaton let Scott take lessons for free if he helped out with chores. Scott was Kira’s first (and only) friend here for a while, but eventually the rest of the group warmed up to her. They’re even kind of _popular_ , which Kira still sometimes has trouble wrapping her head around, but it’s actually pretty cool. Together she and Scott teach the Pony Club lessons on Thursday nights, and sometimes they co-teach private lessons as well. It’s nice, being around someone who loves horses and riding just as much as she does. Scott’s not as much into the competition aspect of it though, even if he does come to all of her races. In Kira’s mind, Scott’s that friend that’s just _easy_ to exist around.

 

There’s someone in the ring when they get back.

The rider has dark braided hair under a cowboy hat and the most impressive form Kira’s ever seen as they guide the nervous, black horse around Kira’s barrels. Kira can feel Scott smirk at the side of her head as they trot closer, and her cheeks start to flush when they near the rider and Kira is instantly overwhelmed by how _beautiful_ she is.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

“Hope you don’t mind I used your course,” the girl calls, trotting up to the boards and sweeping the hat off her head. “We haven’t practiced in two days and I didn’t want him getting sloppy.” The girl pats her horse on his sweaty neck, but Kira’s caught up in the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks and her lips are the prettiest pink she’s ever seen.

This is so, so bad.  
“No worries…” Scott offers after a moment, amusement evident in his voice. “I’m Scott, and this is Kira.”

“Kira Yukimura?” The girl blinks at her, eyes going wide before the narrow.

“Um… yes?” Kira finds herself waving awkwardly and instantly regretting it, wrapping her hand securely around the saddle horn.

“I’m Allison Argent.”

“Oh no.” Kira slaps a hand over her mouth the minute the words leave her lips, but it doesn’t stop the dread that’s slowly starting to creep into her thoughts. She’s _heard_ that name before, spoken in hushed tones on the barrel racing circuit. The Argents are famous for breeding champion horses, have been accused of shady dealings too, but _Allison_ has proved time and time again that she can win on _any_ horse. Kira’s been _dreading_ the day they go up against each other for _years_.

And she’s pretty.

Like _really_ pretty.

Like Kira kind of can’t stop thinking about what her hair might feel like beneath her fingers or how her lips might taste pretty.

“I heard your best time is 16.1,” Allison continues, saddle creaking as she leans forward.

“16.0.” Kira corrects her automatically, cheeks heating up again when Scott snickers.

“Mine’s 15.8.” Allison smiles sweetly, though there’s steel beneath it. Kira should probably be pissed off, or at least vaguely intimidated (which well okay, she’s a _bit_ intimidated) but her mind is going places it _definitely_ doesn’t need to be going. Like thinking about how _badly_ she wants to kiss Allison’s collarbones.

“Guess you’ll have to get practicing Kir’,” Scott offers after the silence stretches for a few beats too long. Kira forces a laugh before mumbling something about needing to get Katana out of the sun, the back of her neck burning as they trot over to the barn.

She manages to get her foot hooked all wrong in the stirrup when she dismounts, and the reigns get so tangled it takes five minutes for her to fix them. Katana gives her this _rude_ look after twenty minutes of aimless brushing, and then when she lets her out into the paddock she trips over absolutely _nothing_ and ends up sprawled in the dirt. Scott’s an angel of course and doesn’t even say anything, but Kira swears his deep eyes are sparkling more than usual.

 

She starts riding more than she ever has. There’s this competitive streak she never knew she had rising to the surface, and she just _needs_ to improve her time. Of course Allison is there _every day_ too, looking all professional and elegant on her perfect horse. Kira hates it a little bit, but mostly she just wants to watch her ride. It’s… mesmerizing, beautiful even, the way Allison and Bullet move seamlessly together as one.

Allison catches her staring sometimes (or every time, probably) and at first she frowns and pushes Bullet harder, but after a while she starts smiling. It’s not an evil smile or anything, but it still makes Kira nervous. She just doesn’t know what to make of it. She tries to stop staring, but it’s _hard_ , especially when Allison gets more comfortable around the barn crew and starts to relax, her smile lighting Kira up from the inside out.

Its two days before school, and Kira has Katana saddled up with English tack, working on a course of jumps that she’s been wanting to perfect. Allison’s in the adjacent ring, Bullet pounding around the barrels and spraying sand with every turn. Suddenly the sun disappears, and ran starts to pour from the sky, soaking through Kira’s shirt in an instant.

She laughs and jumps off Katana’s back, jogging with her into the center of the barn. Allison and Bullet follow close behind, the horses’ flanks steaming as their warm bodies meet the cool rain. Kira hurries to get the tack off her horse, hanging it over empty stall doors so that she can dry it later. Later, when she’s not so distracted by the drops of water running down Allison’s cheeks and the way her t-shirt is clinging to her body. Allison catches her staring, and Kira looks quickly away, focusing on wiping down her bridal.

“Hey.”

She turns to find Allison close, too close, only inches between them. Kira swallows and takes a step back, wincing when she bumps against a stall door.

“Hi,” she squeaks, fingers tightening around the bridal. Allison smiles almost fondly, eyes crinkling as her tongue flicks out and wets her lips.

“I don’t think I’m reading this wrong,” Allison continues, shifting a few inches closer. “And I…” she reaches out hesitantly, one hand curling around Kira’s hip, slipping up beneath her t-shirt to slide across her damp skin. “I would like to kiss you, if you’d want me too.”

Kira nods eagerly. “Yes, please, I’d like that a lot actually. I mean, I’d really like to kiss you too, you’re like, really pretty even though you’re super intimidating and I hope it wasn’t weird but I just like to look at you a lot and oh god that’s sounded super creepy I’m so sorry I-”

“Kira.” She snaps her mouth shut when Allison cuts her off, even though her expression is still soft. “I can’t kiss you if you’re talking.” Kira opens her mouth to say _something_ , she just can’t help it, but Allison leans in before she can get anything out, their nose brushing enough for Kira to snap her mouth closed again. Which was a good choice, because all of a sudden Allison is kissing her.

Kira sighs and wraps her arms around her shoulders, standing on her tiptoes to make the angle work. She’s never kissed a girl before, and it’s different, softer, sweeter, definitely nicer smelling in general. Not that boys smell _bad_ but the rain made both their perfumes smell stronger, and it’s just _nice_. It goes from nice to _good_ the second Allison's tongue sweeps across her bottom lip and Kira moans, parting her lips and sliding her fingers up into Allison’s damp hair. Kira feels like she’s burning up, with Allison’s tongue slick against her own and cool fingers sliding up beneath her shirt and into her hair.

“So…” Kira starts, later, when Allison’s slowed down to just pressing soft kisses to the side of her neck. “Do you like… do you um… what do we do now?” Allison pauses and straightens up, one hand coming up to cup Kira’s cheek. She smiles, dimples and all as her thumb sweeps across the curve of Kira’s bottom lip.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind starting my first day at a new school with a girlfriend.”

Kira can’t bring herself to hide her smile, even as she pushes up and kisses Allison again, their lips too tight and teeth clacking.

“I wouldn’t mind either.”

She smiles, and the grin she gets in return is worth more than any belt buckle she could ever win.


	13. I Love A Rainy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship: Derek/Stiles  
> Tags: future fic, getting together, confession of feelings, lot's of SWEARING  
> Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, mentions of all the pack  
> Rating: Teen & Up  
> Prompt: A story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late birthday present for my wonderful and talented friends [Alis](http://bistiles.tumblr.com/) and [Hannah](http://fuchswrites.tumblr.com/). If you're here because you like sterek you should check both of them out because everything they write is A++.

It’s raining. That’s the first issue that Stiles has. The rest of California is going through a god awful drought, but as soon as he crosses the Beacon County line it starts pouring. Bad things happen in the rain okay? It’s hard to see, and Scott says it makes it harder to smell, and really Stiles just _hates_ being wet. It’s just the worst.

The second problem is Derek Hale.

It’s always Derek Hale honestly. He’s always getting kidnapped, always glaring, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time with too much murder eyebrows for anyone to think it might be a joke (unlike _Stiles_ , who has perfected the wrong thing - wrong time - I’m just a human please don’t hurt me shtick). And of _course_ Derek has to call Stiles in the middle of a rainstorm for help.

Well, technically, Stiles informed the entire pack that he was on problem solving duty while Scott and his mom took a trip down to Mexico to visit extended family. It’s been years since the constant _nonsense_ that was high school, but Scott still functions as Mr. Fix-It for the majority of the pack, and he deserves a vacation. So Stiles had taken it upon himself to redirect all calls for assistance to well, himself. Obviously Derek Fucking Hale would be the only one to take him up on it.

In the middle of a date no less.

And fucking Derek fucking knew he was on a date okay. He had _liked_ the picture he put on Instagram proclaiming himself “date ready”. He had added a picture of his beer to his snapchat story. Derek is addicted to snapchat and also a creeper who stalks the pack on social media. He _had_ to know. No excuses.

Except _apparently_ Derek thought it was a grand idea to decide to try and track down some _scent_ he came across while jogging out in the preserve. Because _obviously_ the best time to try and pull a stunt like this is while Stiles is on a date!

The steering wheel creaks beneath Stiles’ hands as he growls at the rain speckled windshield. The worst part of this whole thing is that he would do _anything_ for Derek. He’s not even _really_ that mad about having to cut his date short, because spending five minutes with Derek lights him up more than three hours with some random person who just wants to fuck. Derek’s grumpy and a smart ass and the most annoying person on the planet, but Stiles can’t stop thinking about him. He wishes he could say this was a new thing, or even that it started when Derek came back from his world tour with Braeden, but no. Oh no. This has been going on since the beginning, since Derek decided to hide out in his bedroom and look at him with so much disdain that Stiles couldn’t help but become obsessed. He likes to think he hides it well, he’s pretty sure only Scott and Lydia know about this whole disaster waiting to happen. And Malia. And Mason. And probably Liam. Which whatever, as long as _Derek_ doesn’t know, everything’s good.

Because Derek _knowing_ would mean Derek acting weird, and not talking to Stiles, not teasing him, probably shutting himself out like he tends to do instead of actually _dealing_ with emotions. Stiles will do anything to keep the light hearted banter they have now, even if that means living with his unrequited crush for eternity. He’s still hoping that Derek will suddenly just turn ugly and unfunny and make Stiles’ live a gazillion times easier. Maybe someday.

There’s movement on the side of the road and Stiles squawks, slamming on the brakes anyways. It’s sad really, that he isn’t all that surprised when a figure steps into his headlights, revealing themselves as a sopping wet, extremely miserable, Derek Hale.  
Stiles cranks down the window, huffing at the rain that starts to slant inside.

“Get in the car asshole.” He rolls the window up before Derek can respond, watching with mild satisfaction as Derek sighs and moves towards the passenger side. He’s moving slower than usual, shoulders slumped like he’s dejected or something. It’s odd, but Stiles chooses to focus on faking indignation instead. He can’t have Derek knowing that he was more than happy to ditch his date in order to pick up a soaked werewolf that might smell slightly like wet dog.

“Next time you take off in a rainstorm, I’m calling animal control,” Stiles smirks as Derek climbs into the front seat, dark hair plastered to his forehead and t-shirt clinging in a terribly distracting fashion.

“Dog jokes, how original.” Derek snaps the door shut with a little more forces than necessary, big arms crossing across his chest. Stiles narrows his eyes as he jams the Jeep into gear, continuing down the road towards Derek’s house.

“No need to be pissy with me dude, I’m fucking here aren’t I?” Derek continues to stare sullenly through the windshield, raindrops clinging to his lashes and the tip of his nose. It’s absurd, but beautiful, and Stiles hates the whole thing just a little bit. “I could be getting my dick sucked right now, and instead I’m picking your ass up on the side of the road, try not to be such a jackass. _Fuck_.”

Derek’s jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything further, his brows dipping impossibly lower over his nose. Stiles huffs and curls his fingers around the steering wheel, trying to control the way his blood is starting to boil. All he wants is a reaction, is for Derek to swear and yell at him, to tell him to stop being selfish, to flip out and demand to be let out of the car. Instead he gets this pouting, non-reaction, as if Derek doesn’t _care_ that Stiles might have a life outside of werewolf bullshit. It’s just not _fair_ , that even if Derek hadn’t called, Stiles would probably still be imagining him in place of poor Billy who he ditched at the bar. It’s not fair to any of them really.

After a moment Stiles sighs, his fingers loosening marginally around the wheel. “Whatever.” He reaches for the radio and turns it up, refusing to react when Taylor Swift starts blaring through the speakers. T-Swift is his girl alright? And she can sing, leave him alone. Derek’s gaze is heavy on the side of his face, but Stiles ignores it, navigating his way around the potholes he’s memorized the location of.

The road to Derek’s new house is slightly sketchy, which is fitting, since Derek can’t seem to live _anywhere_ that doesn’t have a slight creep factor. Stiles is used to it by now, though the road is awfully dark so late at night without the moon or stars overhead. He kind of zones out, focusing on driving and the songs on the radio and _not_ looking at Derek. They’re about two minutes out when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, head whipping around to gape at Derek.

“What is this?” He stares as Derek continues to pull off his shirt, body impressive as ever as every muscle ripples. Stiles looks quickly away, cracking his window slightly in an attempt to cool down his flaming cheeks. Over the years he’s learned how to conceal lies, learned how to fake his death and take down a werewolf with a single blow, but hiding his body’s reactions around desire remains impossible. “Seriously dude? We’re like five seconds away from your house. I know you’re allergic to clothing and everything but _come on_.”

“I’m soaking wet and you’re blasting the air conditioning,” Derek growls, tossing the shirt into the backseat where it lands with a wet slap. “My body wasn’t reacting well.”

“Well neither is mine.” Stiles snaps his mouth shut, face flushing with regret and embarrassment. Derek remains oddly silent, but when Stiles chances a glance at him his eyes are dark and warm, molten maybe. “What? What’s happening? Why are you looking at me with this…face?” He waves a hand in Derek’s direction, heart skipping erratically in his chest. “You _know_ \- you have to know - this isn’t like - can we just not - oh my god I can’t believe this is happening right now.” He sighs, perking up when the warm light on Derek’s front porch comes into view. “Oh look, we’re here. Pleasure as always Derek, have a great night, hope I didn’t cut into your scheduled brooding time.” Stiles shoots Derek a cheery smirk and two fingered salute, but Derek doesn’t move.

Instead he frowns, looking almost vulnerable. It’s enough to make Stiles want to crumple, want to tug him into a hug for no reason except to make him feel safe. Of course the whole shirtless thing would be an obstacle, but Stiles is sure he could be a fucking gentleman and overcome it.

“Stiles,” Derek swallows hard, his eyes trained somewhere on the center console. “I’m sorry I… sorry I interrupted your date.”

Great. Now Stiles feels bad for making Derek feel bad, and that is exactly the _opposite_ of what is supposed to be happening here.

“It’s alright man,” Stiles lifts his hand to pat him on the shoulder, but hesitates, the idea of all that bare skin beneath his palm too thrilling to follow through with. “I’d rather be with you anyways.”

A silence settles over them, broken only by the Stiles’ all too steady heartbeat and the soft sound of One Direction in the background. Stiles replays the words in his head but can’t quite bring himself to regret them, not when Derek’s looking up at him through his lashes like he can’t quite believe his ears.

“Really?” Derek’s voice is so small that Stiles’ heart breaks just a bit, and his restraint snaps.

“Obviously,” he smiles as he curls his hand around Derek’s broad shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the jut of his collarbone. “You’re like, my favorite.”

This time Derek smiles, and Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to hide the way his pulse quickens.

“What about Scott?”

“Well besides Scott, Scott’s everyone's favorite,” Stiles finds himself grinning as Derek leans into his touch, one of his big hands settling down on Stiles’ jittery thigh. “Get with the program big guy.”

“You’re my favorite too,” Derek says around a smirk, mouth lifting in the corner as Stiles’ entire body stills. “After Scott.”

“Well uh,” Stiles swallows as Derek’s fingers press against the inseam of his jeans, slowly creeping up his thigh. “He _is_ the alpha so-”

“Don’t really wanna kiss him though.” Derek’s eyes are doing that _thing_ , where they are so, so focused and this time for the first time he’s focused on Stiles and he’s pretty sure he’s already half hard because this _look_ is probably enough to impregnate people.

“But you wanna kiss _me_?” Stiles calms himself enough to widen his eyes and part his lips just slightly, sending Derek the most coy look he can muster. It must work, because Derek swears under his breath and closes the distance between them, fingers soft and cool and they cup his cheek.

His kisses aren’t quite as forceful as Stiles always imagined, instead they’re careful, gentle, the softest caress of lips and tongue. Stiles sighs and pulls him closer, sliding his hands across the broad expanse of Derek’s back, tracing each muscle with the pads of his fingers.

“There was no scent in the woods,” Derek admits against Stiles’ lips, lashes tickling his cheek as his eyes slip closed. “I was just mad that you were on a date, and it wasn’t with me.”

“Dude.” Stiles laughs and kisses him again, hissing when his knees jam against the dashboard. Derek tastes like rain and coffee, tastes like Stiles might want to kiss him forever. “I’m like, so in love with you, you have no idea.”

“Really?”

“Really. Just ask Scott. He hears about it like once a week. Maybe once a day. Or an hour. It’s pretty bad Der.”

This time Derek laughs, his whole body vibrating with it. Stiles wants to make him do it again, wants to keep making Derek laugh for the rest of his life.

“Can we stop talking about Scott now?” Derek smirks as he untangles himself from Stiles’ limbs and grabs his shirt out of the back seat. “It’s getting kind of weird, and I’d really like to go inside and put on dry clothes.”

Stiles watches, almost numb, as Derek climbs all too gracefully out of the Jeep. The way he moves is mesmerizing, all long lines and planned movements, like if he steps wrong the world might shatter.

“Are you going to stare at me all night or are you going to come inside?”

Stiles blinks back into focus to find Derek smirking at him, raining drops clinging to the hair on his chest.

He’s never scrambled out of the Jeep faster in his life.


End file.
